


Freefalling from Las Vegas

by NotRoman (Manniness)



Series: The Fleischer Guide to an Unforgettable Holiday [1]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Agron is a precious (and multifaceted) cinnamon roll, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Nasir, Bowling league, Bowling teams (because WHY NOT), California, Corruption, Death Valley National Park, Escape, Escorts, FBI, Hermann (a small town), Hospitals, Las Vegas, M/M, Mystery Bad Guy, Nevada, POV First Person, Private Investigators, Same-Sex Marriage, Underground Fighting Ring, Uprising, all the rich and smarmy Romans are still rich and smarmy, and maybe a motorcycle (because vroom! vroom!), blood and death in the arena, blood sports, modern day slavery, reference to non-consensual sex (non-explicit), reference to past child abuse (non-explicit), reference to prostitution (non-explicit), seriously there was nothing else to do in my Small Town USA, the usual fluff and angst, there’s a helicopter (because I think they’re cool), “waking up with amnesia” trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-13 15:00:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 21,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14751089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/NotRoman
Summary: Five things to not forget on a trip to Vegas:(1) your ID,(2) your money,(3) your crash helmet,(4) your huge, fumbling, inarticulate yet adorably dimpled husband,(5) your own fucking name.





	1. Married!?

**Author's Note:**

> I did only the most cursory of research on amnesia. There are a wide range of experiences and there’s still so much we do not know concerning how things go wrong in the brain and why, but there is pretty much ZERO medical realism in this fic. I acknowledge that there are real people in the world who suffer from this terrifying, painful, and frustrating condition… so it makes no sense for the “waking up with amnesia” trope to be my kryptonite, but it is. So I’m owning up to it. Shame be damned.
> 
> PLEASE TAKE A LOOK AT THIS FIC'S TAGS!!!  
> The themes of non-consensual sex, underground fighting rings, and modern day slavery will NOT be explored in detail. In this fic, the focus is on ending their practice, not documenting their horrors.  
> NO FURTHER WARNINGS WILL BE GIVEN.
> 
> Just for shits and giggles, I set a writing exercise goal for myself to LIMIT the word count of each scene (or chapter) to under 1000 words. The chapters are brief but (I hope) VERY ENJOYABLE. (^_~)
> 
> THANK YOU to soldmysoulforasmile (formerly FuckinGauls) for all the encouragement and support on this amnesia!FIC. HUGS!!

“Nasir!”

I jerked away from my deep and meaningful contemplation of the dead bugs on the window sill of my shared-occupancy and lowest-of-low budget (“Can this guy even pay the bill?”) hospital room.

Running steps.  Thud-THUD- _THUD- ** **THUD!****_

“Nasir!”

Whoever Nasir was, I was feeling real sorry for him.  From the sound of those footfalls, his dad had to be built like a professional rugby player.  On a national team.  Maybe Australia’s.

“Sir?  Sir!  Please calm down,” a matronly voice placated with steely authority.  “This is a hospital.  People are trying to rest--”

“I fucking know it’s a hospital!” he snarled.  “Where’s Nasir Fleischer?”

Nasir _****Fleischer?****  _ Poor kid.  The identity crisis alone… I could only imagine.  I told myself to stop.  I should save my energy for keeping an eye on those cricked insect legs sticking up in the sunlight.  I was pretty sure I’d seen one twitch just before Goliath had bumbled his big entrance in the corridor.

“And you are?” the fearless caregiver interrogated.

“Agron Fleischer.”

“Relative?”

“Husband.”

Huh.  Well.  In that case, Nasir could fend for himself.  He’d known what he was signing up for.

“Do you have ID, sir?”

“Yes, I--fuck!”  Clothing rustled as he scrabbled for his wallet.  “Just a--God damned--”

Articulate, too.  What a catch this Nasir guy had landed.

“Here!  Mine and, uh, OK, here--this one’s his.  From university.  Expired, uh, we just moved here...   _ ** **Where is he?”****_

“You’ll have to check in at the--”

“I already fucking did that and they sent me up to this floor!”

“--reception desk to get his room number.”

“Fuck that!”

“Sir?  Sir!  You cannot barge into every room--”

“Watch me!”

To tell the truth, I wished I could.  This little drama was way better than the slop on daytime TV.

But before the image of a large, frantic man of German descent could fully take shape in my mindscape, the nearby door sprang open and there he was.

Yup.  Professional rugby player.

And if he wasn’t, then he’d missed his calling.

I offered him a nod, mouth opening to wish him luck in his search for--

“Nasir!” he gasped, vein-popping tension dissipating like a puff of metaphorical magic smoke.  He thundered past the other three occupied beds in the room and, bewilderingly, stopped at the foot of mine.

Then, he took a sharp right that had him at my bedside.

I gaped up at him as two large hands gently cupped my face and he hunched down to press a shockingly soft kiss to my slack lips.  “You’re OK!  Finally, one Goddamn thing that’s not fucked sideways--”  He scanned me with bright eyes, beaming.  Dimpling.  “You had me worried, babe.”

That was news to me.

As was the fact that I was married.

Plus, my name was Nasir?

Nasir _****Fleischer?****_

Fuck.

I could tell already, this was gonna get real awkward real fast.

Fucking amnesia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the "fearless caregiver" is Camilla. 
> 
> I had three options in mind for Agron's family name in this AU:  
> Klingemann, meaning "a weapons smith" &  
> Metzger or Fleischer, both meaning "a butcher"  
> In the end, I just picked the one I thought sounded best with "Nasir." How shallow is that? OMG.


	2. Las Vegas

A motorcycle accident.

That was what the 911 caller had said, though where this motorcycle of mine was, no one seemed to know.

Agron assumed it was stolen.  “The fuckers would’ve had to fight you for it.”

“It means a lot to me?”

His jaw clenched as he looked down at his hands, which he was keeping to himself now that he’d been lectured on the fact that my blank-eyed stare wasn’t due to overpriced medication that made it possible to withstand the press of starchy hospital linen against my bruised arms, shoulders, and torso.  Plus, y’know, the broken leg.  Oh, and the _****pounding headache.****_

He mumbled, “It means a lot to me.  It was my dad’s.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey.”  He leaned closer and whispered, intimate and urgent, “It’s not your fault--”

“It might be--”  If my brain would just make the connections already, I’d know for sure one way or another.

“--and I’d much rather have you.”

“You’d rather have your husband,” I clarified, reminding him that I was very much not that man at the moment.

He shook his head.  “Nasir.  Just you.”

Well, fuck.  I was starting to see why I might have married him.  Still wasn’t sure why I’d taken his name, though.  Had excessive amounts of alcohol or a losing bet been involved?

A tiny, electric jolt shot through me.  My chin twitched, eyes blinked.

“What is it?” he urged.

“Um.  A bet?  Gambling?” I muttered aimlessly.  I was still in the hospital, after all.  Why not ramble like a mental patient?

One side of his lips kicked up into a helpless smirk, flashing the hint of a dimple.  “Well, this is Las Vegas.”

Yes.  OK.  That was something I recognized, though only with frustrating vagueness.

“Do you have my ID?” I asked, thirsty for information, yet wary of depending solely on one source.

He handed it over.

Once upon a time, I’d been a student at Cal Tech.  Well, whaddya know.  I guess that meant I was pretty smart.

I braced myself for another little zing of recognition and waited.

…waited…

… w a i t e d …

Nothing.  With a huff, I flipped the scuffed up card over between my fingers, slapped it against my opposite palm.  Bit my lip and took the plunge.  “So, when are you busting me outta here?”

A slow grin uncurled on his expressive face in response.  “Just waitin’ on you, babe.”

I narrowed my eyes at the endearment, tracking his progress as he shoved the plastic chair back under the wall-mounted TV and made for the door.  Walking backwards, he pointed a finger at me.  “Don’t you go anywhere.”

With a snort, I gestured toward my broken leg, wrapped in a pristine cast and propped up on a stack of cracker-flat pillows.  How far did he think I would get?

His chuckle rang in my ears long after the door had shut behind him.

Lucius, the geezer on the bed next to mine, groused, “Thank God somebody’s come to collect you.  Just close the blinds before you go, would you?”

“Sure, man.”  What could I say?  In the hours since I’d come to, we’d bonded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have very little experience with U.S. hospitals. And, actually, I’m gonna be playing fast and loose with a LOT of “real life” details, so just go with it, m’kay?
> 
> Speaking of which: motorcycles. I am not an expert (but go ahead and ask me about bicycles -- I can tell you lots about those), but if YOU know motorcycles, I just want to say that yes, I know it's pretty unlikely that a bike which fits Agron would also fit Nasir. Even if we assume that Agron's dad is 5'11" (180 cm tall), the bike that fits him is probably going to be a little small for Agron (who is 6'2") and a little too heavy and unwieldy for Nasir (who is 5'8").
> 
> Cal Tech stands for California Institute of Technology, which is a private university in the Los Angeles area and has an acceptance rate of under 10%.


	3. Suite Things

“Where’s my stuff?” I asked, initial scan of the rental suite completed.

Agron lifted the plastic bag he’d collected from the hospital.  There wasn’t much in it.  My wallet was long gone.  There was a smartphone, locked and low charge.  The screen had been smashed, spider-webbed with cracks.   Agron had confessed to not knowing the number: “It’s for your work.”

Work.  That had sounded promising.  “What do I do?”

“Uh... some kind of personal assistant, I think?”

“Whose?”

Agron had given me a one-shouldered shrug.  “Never met him and you don’t talk about work.  Confidentiality agreement or something.”

I still found Agron’s ignorance hard to believe -- I definitely would have given him the number for emergencies -- but his frustration had been genuine.

As for the rest of my stuff, my trousers had been cut up by the paramedics and my black windbreaker had been scraped threadbare in places corresponding with my bruises.  Both garments had a date with Garbage Day.  That left the socks, briefs, and undershirt I’d been wearing at the time of the accident.  Plus my helmet, which had an alarmingly deep gash along the dome where I must have had a close encounter with a lead pipe or a hard edge of some kind.

Maybe that’s how the muggers-slash-hijackers had put me out of commission.

The helmet itself was weird.  Unlike anything I’d seen bikers wear.  Kind of vintage or military.  But it fit me, so it had to be mine and not another of Agron’s family keepsakes.

I eyed the plastic bag and quirked a brow.  “The sum total of my worldly possessions?”

“Oh.”  He set the bag down on the bureau rather than the floor, which I appreciated.  Still, one considerate gesture wasn’t going to make me forget the fact that everything in this room clearly belonged to him.  “I--fuck.  I dunno.”

He rubbed his hands over his face and veered toward the kitchen, banging through cupboards and rummaging in the fridge.  I hobbled after him on my rented crutches.

Agron cracked open the cap on a bottle of water and filled the kettle on the stove.

“Are we OK?” I checked.

“Yeah,” he assured me, now futzing around with generic, ceramic cups.  “It’s just... I had to fly in to Vegas without you and I should have--we should have come here together.”

His shoulders bowed under the strain of guilt.

I floundered.  “Um, why didn’t we?”

“I, uh.  Work,” he gusted out.  “Job interview.”

“What job?”

“Private investigator.”

“No shit?”  I would not have guessed that.  Although something told me he had a gift for interrogation.  Intimidation, at the very least.  “So most of our stuff is…?”

“In San Diego.”  He scooped the whistling kettle off of the stove top and splashed hot water into each cup, moving on to the second before the first was full and then backtracking.  He stared at his wristwatch until maybe half a minute had passed and then he topped off the first mug.  “We were gonna see how it goes here for a bit before, um--gotta get set up first, yeah?”

He placed two steaming cups on the kitchen table.  The contents of his were noticeably darker than mine.  Also, mine had a teabag soaking in its depths.

Agron pulled the nearest chair out for me, wooden legs stuttering on the linoleum.  “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” I grunted, plopping into the offered seat.  I reached for my cup and sniffed the steam.

Green tea… with strawberry blossoms?

Ah, yes.  This was mine.  I took a sip, delighting in the fact that I knew this.  Glancing toward the counter, I grinned at a tin of Lupicia blended teabags beside a jar of cheap, instant coffee, Agron’s poison of choice.

I grimaced.  “I’m not kissing you unless you brush your teeth first.”

Agron’s chin snapped up.  His eyes gleamed: delighted, devilish, devious.

Fighting the urge to shrink back, I opted to hide behind my cup.  “Dunno why I said that.”

“I’m just glad you did.”

Was it too late to deliver a preemptive strike?  “No taking advantage of the invalid.”

He leaned both elbows on the tabletop.  Suddenly solemn, he vowed, “Right now, it’s my job to help you remember.”  His soft smile almost distracted me from what he said next: “Then, we’ll go from there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bottled water is a must in a lot of places in America's Southwest. (The tap water is often chemically treated to within an inch of YOUR life. Blegh.)
> 
> Lupicia has some pretty interesting teas, but I've never seen a strawberry blossom and green tea blend. I think it has potential, though.


	4. Midnight Spoiler Alert

Movement in the darkness.

_****An intruder!** ** _

Panic rammed spikes through my wrists.  I fought back and was rolling out of bed before I was even aware of it, desperate to reach the--

OW.  FUCK!  My leg!

“Whoa whoa whoa!”

Hands.  Large hands and strong arms scooped me away from the edge of the bed, a knee planted on the mattress, forming a dip that I rolled helplessly into.

“Nasir?  Hold on.  Lemme get the light.”

The light.  OK.  I didn’t think it would make the pain in my leg diminish at all, but eh what the hell.

A soft click.  Agron and I squinted at each other in the glow.  He hovered over me as my leg throbbed and I bit back all but the hiss of my panting breaths.

“Shit.  Lemme get your meds.”

He climbed off of the bed without jostling me.  I would be impressed later.  Once my leg and I were on amicable terms again.

After a moment, I realized the gushing sound that filled my ears wasn’t my own pulse but the toilet tank refilling in the next room.

Agron presented me with a chilled bottle of water and a pair of painkillers.

“Good husband,” I gritted out.

He chuckled and waited for me to slouch back against the mattress and pillows, guiding my descent with steady hands.  Instead of climbing in beside me or retreating to his bed on the other side of the nightstand, he knelt on the floor, grasping my hand hard.

“So, spoiler alert,” he began, sheepishly.  “Drinking coffee after five p.m. makes me do a number two in the middle of the night.”

I guffawed.  The sound of my own laughter seemed strange.  How odd.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he concluded.

I wished I could deny that he had, but…  “Do we keep a gun?”

“Given what I do, of course.”

I must have been scrambling to get to it.  Half asleep.  Would’ve shot myself in my other leg if I’d gotten my hands on it, probably.  “Here?”

“Yeah.”

“They didn’t let you take that on the plane.”

“No.  It’s new.”

“Have you at least fired it yet?  Taken it to the range?”

“Wow,” he drawled, looking very appreciative of my firearms 101.  Well, as appreciative as a guy could look while wearing a stained T-shirt and baggy, faded sweatpants.  “Hearing you talk like that is kind of a turn-on.”

“Common sense turns you on.  Good to know.”  I sucked in a deep breath.  Let it out slowly.  Ah, the throbbing was starting to settle down in the backseat where it belonged.  With my headache riding shotgun and amnesia behind the wheel.  Oh, what a trip this was turning out to be.

“How long have we been married?” I blurted.

He blinked, flashed those damn dimples, and rose up to press a skin-chafing, scruff-bordered kiss to my forehead.  “You tell me, babe.”

“Babe,” I scoffed.  “Do I seriously let you get away with calling me that?”

“Only if I’m very, very lucky.”

“Uh-huh.  Look, if you think you can behave yourself, why don’t you climb back up here?”

There ought to be a law against a smile like that.  Maybe there was.  Probably not in Nevada, though.

“Is there something you think I can do for you up there?” he teased.

“Yeah.  There is.”  My lips quirked.  “Spoiler alert: drinking water in the middle of the night is probably going to make me do a number three sometime around five a.m.  You’re gonna keep me from breaking my other leg getting out of bed.”

“Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you haven't heard these terms before:  
> "do a number two/No. 2/#2" = poo/poop  
> "do a number three/No. 3/#3" = pee  
> (^_~)
> 
> It's basic gun safety to thoroughly familiarize yourself with a new gun before utilizing it. Take it to the firing range, wear protective goggles and noise-cancelling headphones or earplugs. And always always ALWAYS keep the safety on unless you are 100% ready to fire the gun. (I'm not an expert on guns, but this is what I've gleaned from people who own them and use them responsibly.)


	5. Morning Routine

“Yes, sir.”

I stared into the bathroom mirror as I said those two words.  They were familiar.  My mouth knew their shape better than my ears had known the sound of my own uninhibited laughter.

“Yes, sir,” I repeated, willing the memories to flash before my eyes.

A soft knock on the door.  “You want a hand with the blow dryer?”

“Is that a thing with you?” I retorted.  “Blowing me in the mornings?”

His chuckle was five shades of naughty.  “If it is?”

“Then you’ve earned yourself a day off.  I’ll handle it.”

“Hmm.”

How could I hear the man’s filthy, daydreaming hum through the bathroom door?  And why did it make me break out into goose bumps?  There was still steam swirling around in here from my shower!

I grabbed for the blow dryer.  “Go away.”

“Be nice to me when you come out.  I’ll have your tea ready.”

OK.  Maybe I would be nice.

Sharing a bed had been nice.  Agron’s arm around my waist to keep me from trying to roll over in my sleep: vaguely familiar though also… wrong.  Too big, too heavy, too strong.

I still didn’t understand.

Maybe it was time I tried.

Hair dry and towel secured around the money shot, I banged on the door and waited for Agron to deliver my crutches.  I made it to the bed where he’d laid out my clothes.  All brand new with the tags clipped off.  He untaped the plastic sleeve I was required to wear around my cast during showers and got me started on pulling a pair of clean briefs and jogging pants up past my knees.

Agron didn’t touch the towel.  He stood, gently ghosted his fingers through my loose hair, and went back to the kitchen.

I finished getting dressed and crutch-walked myself in after him.  “You hear back on the job yet?”

“Got a second interview this afternoon.”

“That sounds… promising.”

“What do you feel like for breakfast?”

“Tea.”

“Check.  And?”

I had no idea.  “What are you having?”

“Cheese omelet with tomatoes?”

But he’d change the menu if I yucked out on him.  Damn.  “That’ll work.  Feed me.”

“Grumpy _****and****_  demanding.”

“Don’t go getting all hot and bothered.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I took a sip of tea.  Cleared my throat.  “Speaking of which, I’d like to see where the accident happened.”

There was a long pause as he cracked four eggs into a bowl, paused to add a dash of salt, some black pepper, and a splash of cold water. Then, whisked briskly with a salad fork.  “I don’t know where it happened,” he admitted once that was done, testing the fry pan’s heat with a flick of tap water onto its surface.

“Can you find out?”

“Yeah,” he said a little too loudly, even over the sizzle of eggs making contact with the fry pan.  “I’ll make some calls.”


	6. Scene of the Accident

“Going down?”

“Yeah, thanks, man.”  Agron reached around me to hold the elevator door as I gimped my way into the cab.  These crutches and I were melding.  Oh yes, soon we would be _****one.****_

“I bet that’s a good story,” the man in the elevator remarked, eyes on my cast.

I glanced up, mirroring his sardonic grin.  “Base jumping.”

“First, last, and only time?”

My, wasn’t he friendly.  Despite the shaved head, tiny goatee, and muscled build that almost put him on par with Agron.

I answered obliquely, “Depends if there’s happy hour involved.”

He let out a bark of laughter.  Agron was shaking his head at me, facing the doors as we descended to the lobby.  I poked him in the back of the head.

“What?”  He turned a little, entering my space.

“Hi,” I said.

His grin returned in full force.  “Hi.”

“You’re with me,” I informed him.

“Absolutely,” he agreed as we came to a cushioned stop.  Agron held the door again.  “Don’t crutch-stomp my toes is all I ask.”

“High standards.”

Our fellow elevator passenger approached the front desk.  In the lobby, a muscular guy with a dark, bushy beard was reading the Sports section of the paper on a pleather sofa.  Polo shirt and khakis.  With cuffed pant legs.  Poor bastard.  His wife had undoubtedly dressed him.

Perhaps that was her over by the courtesy phone.  Long, ringlet-curled blond--no, no, _****wavy****  _blond hair.  Sporty.

“Taxi’s waiting out front,” Agron said.  “If you still wanna do this.”

“We’re doing it,” I decided.  My memory was just a few familiar things away.  The location of the accident… I should be able to remember the streets, the weather, the feel of the motorcycle under me.

But I didn’t.

Even when we got out of the taxi and I crutched myself up and down the street, looking for skid marks that just weren’t there.  I didn’t remember the thrum of an engine or unknown attackers.

Darkness.

Spinning.

Rushing wind and flapping birds’ wings and my ears ringing, the sound warping until--

Until I’d winced away from the stale, over-sanitized hospital smell and opened my eyes hours later.

Agron inched closer, curving himself around me.  “Anything?”

I nodded once.  Frowned.  “Something.”

But I had no idea what it meant.

I looked up and toward the Las Vegas Strip just a block away as commuters, residents, and savvy tourists cruised by.  This road was not on the way to our rental suite.  Not even close.  Why had I taken a detour from the highway and ridden out here after dark?

Fucking amnesia!

Warmth upon my shoulders.  Even through the fabric of my shirt, Agron’s touch radiated heat… but not weight.

“When did you know?” I suddenly asked, angling my head to meet his gaze.  “When did you know there was something between us?”

His expression pinched briefly with pain.  Through a sad smile, he said, “You told me about your brother.”

“I have a brother?”

“Had.”

I stared at him, wondering why it hadn’t occurred to me to ask sooner, but--“I need to contact my family.”

Agron’s hands squeezed my shoulders.

“Don’t I?”

“I’ve never met them.  You’ve never mentioned anyone else.”  Brow furrowing, he nodded with increasing resolve.  “I’ll look into it.”

“Thank you.”  I lifted a hand and gave his fingers a squeeze.  “What about you?  Your family?”

“A younger brother.  Duro.”

“Have I met him?”

“You, um…  He’s missing.  Vanished over three weeks ago.”

Oh, God.  “Do you think he could be here in Vegas?”

“One way or another, I’m going to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick song rec: "Close Your Eyes" by Digital Daggers  
> I had this on repeat as I wrote because it just gives me serious feels for Agron and Nasir in this scenario... and also Agron and Duro... and also Nasir and his brother. So, yeah. Feels were happening all over the place.


	7. Lunchtime Promises

The photos Agron had on his phone of Duro all showed a dark-eyed man just a smidgen shorter and more slender than his older brother.  Eyebrows like fuzzy caterpillars.  Short, dark dreadlocks exploding from his scalp.  Dimples a faint echo of the original.

Their shared aura of carefree playfulness, as if no obstacle was insurmountable or goal unattainable: _****then.****_

The love and pride and sheer agony in Agron’s expression: _****now.****_

I curled a hand around his wrist and squeezed.  “We’ll find him.  Whatever you need; it’s yours,” I vowed.

He released a long breath, lashes fluttering and big body swaying as the taxi driver -- a man who could have been brothers with Mr. Bushy Beard from the lobby -- made a right turn.  Agron braced his other arm on the seatback in front of him and looked into my eyes.  “Thank you.”

I nodded, throat clenched tight.  Duro.  The name brought to mind the chant of an adoring crowd -- DU-RO! DU-RO! -- and the thud of fists in quick succession -- a one-two, Du-ro!

“He’s a fighter,” I heard myself say, the words slipping out and startling a wondering smile out of my husband.  “We’ll find him.”  I was sure of it.

We stopped at a cellphone dealer to see about repairs to mine.  I could only hope that once the screen was replaced and battery charged, I’d get a call from my boss asking where the hell I was.  Or just wanting to chew me out before informing me that I’d been fired.  Whatever.  Anything would be more than I knew now.

I wasn’t really up for lunch at a restaurant, so we got some takeout and headed back to the suite.  Agron assured me he wouldn’t be late for his interview.

“How did we meet?”

Agron’s fork coasted to a stop just shy of depositing a bite of basil-and-pork stir fry in his mouth.  “Um, kind of like this, actually.”

“I’m sorry?”

He chewed, gesturing with his free hand.

“Over lunch?  Thai takeout?  What?”

Swallowing, he coughed a tiny chortle.  “No, in an apartment.  Your apartment.”

“In San Diego.”

“Yeah.  I, uh, I broke in with a couple of, um, friends.”

This I needed to process without interference.  I set my fork down.  “Say what now.”

He laughed a little, clearly uncomfortable.  “Yeah.  Dunno who was more surprised.  Maybe us -- you have a wicked roundhouse kick.”

OK, that did deserve a laugh.  I eyed my broken leg with a sense of profound loss.  “Not so much right now.”

“You’ll get that back.”

Agron, on the other hand, might not ever get to hold his brother again.  Right.  I needed to focus on priorities.

“So, you broke into my place by mistake,” I summed up.

He tilted his head, giving me that slow, gorgeous grin of his.  Reaching across the table, he held out a hand.  When I grasped it, he murmured, “I’ve never thought it was.”

His thumb feathered back and forth over mine and--goose bumps again.  Shit.  It was just a harmless caress, but I felt it from my tingling scalp to racing heart to swelling arousal.  I tugged on his hand.  “C’mere.”

He obeyed, standing and rounding the table to hover.

Face turned up, I murmured, “Kiss me again.”

The first time had not been a fluke; his free hand went to my cheek, cradling my jaw as he nudged his lips against mine.  I hooked my arm -- the one that wasn’t busy holding onto his hand -- around his shoulders, angled my head and parted my lips in invitation.

A soft groan.  His tongue bumping clumsily against mine as I relearned our kisses.  A shudder worked its way through him, chopping up his exhalation against my cheek.

When he tried to ease back, I speared my fingers into his short hair and held on, pushing upright, pursuing, cast forgotten until I overbalanced and he stumbled us a step back against the kitchen counter.  My teeth gouged against his pliant lips, releasing a growl from his throat and his hands grabbed onto my hips, pulling himself flush against me, kisses wet and messy and unrestrained.

My God.  This man would burn me alive.

A slow, surging rhythm.  He rocked my hips forward and up, hard arousals sliding against each other through layers of fabric.

I gasped.

His breath, lips, tongue on my neck as he curled closer, nuzzling and sucking.

Yes.

“Bed.”  The command spooled out from my throat, its hook digging deep in my belly, jerking the base of my spine.  Pure rush.  Heart-pounding elation. **_Joy._**   I could have this.  Finally, I could have this, and _****I was taking it.****_

Agron stopped.  Pulled back.  Pressed his forehead to mine.  “How long have we been married?”

“Long enough for this.”

He chuckled, a desperate hopeless sound.  “No.  Nasir, no,” he insisted, meeting my gaze as he petted my hair gently.  “If we do this now, I’ll be the only one who’s making love.”

That was unfair.  “I married you.”  And I trusted that I had done it out of love.

“But you’ve only known me for a day.”

Fuck.  I loosened my grip on his shoulders and neck, allowing an inch of space between our bodies.  “Fine.  But if it all comes back to me in the throes of orgasm, I’m saying ‘I told you so.’”

He pressed a kiss to my temple, long arms squeezing me into a gentle hug.  “Deal.”


	8. Phone Call

Agron was exhausted after his interview, but he insisted it had been fine.

“Fine,” I repeated flatly, abandoning the TV remote as he flopped down onto the other bed, spread-eagle.

He sighed up at the ceiling.  I left the TV off.  I’d managed a short nap before a loud bang had woken me.  At first, I’d thought it was the door signaling Agron’s return, but I was alone.  Heart pounding in my chest and the air conditioner gently whump-whump-whumping against the far wall.  Mindless television had seemed like a good way to settle my jangling bones.

“It was fine,” he agreed.

They say third time’s a charm, but neither one of us was convinced.

“So, did you get it?”  What was the bottom line here?

“Not yet.”

I glared at the faceless assholes who were stringing my husband along.  “How’s my uppercut?”

He barked a laugh and swiveled his head to face me.  “Impressive.”

“Well, you hold ‘em, and I’ll pummel,” I proposed.

Agron rolled up onto his side, propping his chin in one hand.  “You’re incredible.”

Suddenly uncomfortable, I shrugged.  “You say that to all your husbands.  If I knew a good place to hide bodies _****that****_  would be incredible.”

He huffed a giggle.  “Not that I need another reason to want your memories back, but I’ll take it.”

I watched him sit up, bracing his elbows on his knees and rotating his neck with a groan.  Tension.  This job he might get and me being not-a-husband and his brother missing and his dad’s bike stolen--

“You need to relax.”  I scooped up the bedside phone and started punching buttons.  “I know just the--”

My finger stopped, poised over the final digit.  Agron’s grip on my wrist held me fast.  Tight.

I hadn’t even seen him move.

“Who are you calling?”

The urgency in him was incomparable to anything he’d displayed before.  Except maybe the moment he’d shoved open the hospital room door and laid eyes on me.

“Nasir, who--are--you--calling?”  His voice was nearly a whisper, each word enunciated slowly.

“I… I don’t know.”

He inhaled.  His grip loosened.  “OK.”  He nodded for me to go ahead.

I didn’t object when he put the call on speaker.

It was picked up on the sixth ring.  A woman’s voice queried guardedly, “Hello?”

Blond ringlets.  A teasing smile.  Swaying hips in a tight, snakeskin-print sheath.

I cleared my throat.  “Ah, I’m not sure if I have the right number.  I just--”

She gasped.  “Oh, my God.  Tiberius?”

_****Tiberius.****_

> “Tiberius, my bags.  Take them into the bedroom.”
> 
> “Tiberius, clear my schedule for tomorrow afternoon.”
> 
> “Tiberius, get the chopper ready.  The Los Angeles meeting has been pushed up.”
> 
> “Tiberius, I won’t be going out tonight.  Have dinner brought up.”
> 
> “Tiberius, what would I do without you?”

My name wasn’t Nasir.  It was Tiberius.

I stared at Agron, who glowered down at the phone.  Somehow, the plastic casing and parts didn’t melt.  Somehow, the metal bits within didn’t spark and burst into flame.

And then he slid that gaze in my direction.

“Tiberius?  Tiberius, talk to me!  Dominus thinks you’re dead and I’ve got, uh, damn.  I’ve got a bit of a problem here with--”

“I’m gonna have to call you back.”

“Don’t you dare hang up on--”

I disconnected the call with a clatter.

Oh, God.  Oh, fuck.  What the hell was going on?

And just how was my husband going to kill me for this?  I’d heard strangulation was not only personal but satisfying.

“Hey, hey,” a soft voice murmured.  The mattress sagged, and a large, warm body with long, strong arms cocooned me.  “Talk to me, babe.”

But how could I?  How could I even begin to apologize for this?

I stiffened as a sudden, terrifying thought grabbed me in its clutches: I’d married Agron under a false name, so we weren’t even _****married.****_   Not really.

And that hurt worst of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muscle memory. We know this is a thing in the TV show (that's what all the training drills in the ludus are about), but most of us experience it on a much smaller scale in our daily lives. (I once had a coworker who would do a lot of shopping by phone and she could remember her credit card number just by the sequence of buttons pushed on the dial pad but she could not recite them from memory.)


	9. Redial

I was going to have to call her back.  Whoever she was, she knew me.  I was pretty sure I’d be useless in helping her out with whatever she was going through, but the urge to find a solution -- the urge to shelter and guide and protect -- was too strong to resist.

I’d make a hell of a human resources manager.

“Agron…”  God, I had no idea what to say.

He shifted from behind me and captured my chin in his fingers.  Peering into my wide-eyed panic, he told me, “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Oh, my God.  He’d just found out that I’d been living a double life, and this was his most pressing concern.  I conceded, “I think I’ve just figured out why I married you.”  And why I’d taken his last name.  And why I wasn’t going to let anything bad happen to him, either.  Ever.

He wrapped himself around me again.  His wet chuckle sifted through my hair and branded my scalp.

I reached for the phone and hit redial.

“Tiberius, you asshole!  Where do you get off--”

“Calm down!” I barked, startled at the commanding tone.  Another piece of me slotted into place.  I was used to this.  I used to _**do**_ this: manage and manipulate people.  “What’s the problem?  How can I help?”

“Oh, God,” she groaned.  “I don’t know!  Dominus is going to kill me and you _****both.”****_

Dominus.  The man’s voice in my memories, issuing one order after another.  A man to be obeyed at all costs.  I shivered, steeled myself, pressed onward.

“Only if he catches us.  Are you safe?”

“For the moment, but my, uh, guest isn’t looking so good.  Do you have a fake ID?  Something Dominus doesn’t know about?”

I glanced at Agron.

He nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Rent a van with it and get your ass over here.  And bring towels.  And bottled water.  And--”  Agron scrambled for a memo pad and pen as she rattled off a list of necessities.  “And make sure there’s a full tank.  It’s gonna be a long drive.”

“Give me your address.”

There was a puzzled pause.  “Don’t you have it?”

“My phone was smashed.”

“Oh.  No wonder.  Still, with your magic memory, I would have thought--”

Agron tapped the memo pad with the tip of the logo-printed pen.  Standing by.

“Address!”

She gave it.  He wrote it, but I didn’t need a shopping list to remember every word she’d told me.  This had been my job once: attending to even the smallest detail.

“On my way,” I told her and hung up.

Agron stripped the top five sheets of paper off of the pad.  He brought me my shoe -- for the foot that wasn’t poking out of the end of a cast -- and damaged windbreaker.  “I’ll rent the van.”

I grabbed for his arm before he could shift away.  “I didn’t know,” I attempted to explain.  “Tiberius and--and--I’m sorry I didn’t know.”  At the very least, I should have warned him.

He cupped my neck, gently nudging my hair back.  “First, memories -- whatever they are, good and bad.  Then…”

I sucked in a lungful of air.  “Then, we go from there.”

A taxi took us to the airport.  There were plenty of rental car companies to choose from.  We got a van, stopped at a 24-hour superstore and picked up the items on the list.  Agron paid cash for everything.

Fuck, I’d married a smart man.

Although, a private investigator would have to be, wouldn’t he?

As we drove through the streets, staying within the speed limit, I asked, “Did you know?  About Tiberius?  Did I ever tell you?”

“No.”

“But… you’re a P.I.”

“If you’re asking if I ever did a background check… the answer is yes.”

“And?”

“There wasn’t much to find.”

“That didn’t raise any red flags for you?”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel.  “You’re worth the risk.”

I rubbed a hand over my face, leaned into my palm, and stared out the passenger side window.  “I married a romantic.”  A stupidly brave, follows-his-heart romantic.

If I’d had any doubts about that, they would have been wiped away ten seconds after we arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're worth the risk." -- OK, I almost deleted this sequence, but then I realized that this was Agron with his back exposed. (Have you noticed in the TV show how he has a tendency to focus on what's right in front of him and totally forget to watch his back? This is definitely a thing in 01x13. And for a lot of Vengeance? Gods, but this man loves charging head-first into battle, so there's a tiny echo of that here.)


	10. Rooftop

“Who the hell is this?”

I blinked at the woman -- blonde, ringlets piled messily on top of her head, old flannel shirt and ripped up jeans -- and followed her gaze to where my husband hovered.

“Agron,” he said before I could sort out my tongue.  “And you are?”

“Chadara.”

That wasn’t her real name, but it was the one she went by when she was working.  I knew this as instinctively as I’d known her phone number.

She stared hard at my husband before opening the door to her shabby condo wider.  “Get in.”

I swung myself over the threshold, Agron’s hand spanning the back of my shoulder.  She took three steps and pointed to something around the edge of the wall.  In her living room, a man was sprawled out on a battered, thrift store sofa.  A gauze bandage around his middle.

I was beginning to see what towels, bottled water, and the rest of Chadara’s “necessities” would be used for, but--

“What the fuck?” Agron snarled.

The man on the sofa twitched, hands clawing weakly at the cushions as if to pull himself upright.  “Ag--Agron?”

Glancing back over my shoulder, I took in my husband’s slack-jawed expression.

“He’s been asking for you,” Chadara prompted.  “When he’s coherent.”

Agron nearly tripped on my crutches in his rush to crash to his knees beside the sofa.  He grabbed the man’s battered face almost roughly, pulling and pushing their gazes together.  “Duro!” he choked out.  “I’m here.  I’m here.”

Duro’s face folded, expression crumpling under the pressure of his tears.  Gone was the fearless grin.  One eye had the baggy, blackened look of having recently been swelled shut and the entire left side of his face was a hideous mass of purple-green bruises and dried-blood scrapes.  His hair was shorn.

This was Duro.  And this wasn’t the first time I’d met him, either.

When he pulled back from his brother’s embrace, softly spoken words in German fading into stupefied silence, Duro turned his grin my way.  “And here’s the man who fucking saved my life.”

Agron was weeping, silent tears streaking down his cheeks, at a loss for words.

I, however, was not.  “No,” I corrected Duro.  “There was nothing I could do…”

Chadara placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed.  The bruise beneath roared in protest and I remembered--

> Wind whipping sand up from the desert.  Dust churning from the helicopter’s idling blades.  The Las Vegas Strip glowing all around and below the helipad.
> 
> Dominus considered his two most recent acquisitions.  A moment later, he spoke, “Only one of you will be moving forward to face your destiny.  The other will be… demoted.”
> 
> I glanced at the open air behind the two figures on the roof’s ledge.
> 
> Dominus held out a hand.  One of his bodyguards placed a gun in it, removing the safety for him.
> 
> “Who will it be?”
> 
> Duro, half of his face mashed and still swelling from the fights, glanced at the slighter form beside him.  His chin lifted in acceptance of his choice, chest heaving beneath the mottling of bruises gained layer by layer over the course of the day.
> 
> Gesturing with a hand that bled from skinned knuckles, he said, “Take her with you.”
> 
> So easily, he volunteered to die.
> 
> My chest clenched tight as I realized that this was a test.  A test that Duro had just passed.
> 
> The gun moved back and forth between them.  Stopped.  Dominus grinned widely in anticipation.
> 
> I lurched forward--
> 
> _****Bang!** ** _
> 
> My head ringing--the world spinning--I clawed at the air--found flesh--pulled, yanked, pivoted--the ledge caught me behind the knees--freefall-- _ ** **whoosh!****_

“How did you fucking survive that fall?” Duro wondered, his one good eye shining with fever.

“Base jumping,” I mumbled, my fingers recalling the feel of the rip cord, my ears filling with the flutter of parachute fabric.  Not birds’ wings at all, not at night.  Of course not.  I closed my eyes with the echoing sensation of spinning, slamming against concrete, sliding, skin sizzling with friction-adrenaline-agony-- _ ** **Release!  Hit the release!****_

I must have shed the entire pack because the paramedics hadn’t found me attached to a parachute or wearing a harness.

Though much remained murky, three things were perfectly clear:

First, I hadn’t lost Agron’s motorcycle after all.

Second, the bullet that had ricocheted off of my pilot’s helmet had embedded itself in Duro’s gut.

Third, Dominus would kill us all if he found us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, helicopter pilots do not wear parachutes. There are lots of good technical reasons for this, which basically comes down to “keep your hands and legs inside the ‘car’ at all times and spin/coast your way to a controlled landing in the event of engine failure” BUT let’s pretend things are different in this ‘verse, eh? Nasir is wearing a parachute which tucks neatly into the pilot’s seat so it doesn’t interfere with piloting. Nasir would have suited up and put this on before getting the helicopter ready for flight.
> 
> As for the landing, that’s where Nasir breaks his leg because base jumping (jumping from the top of a tall cliff or building and parachuting down) is very dangerous and if there isn’t enough time to get the parachute fully open, you can’t slow your descent well enough to avoid dying let alone serious injuries.
> 
> Technically, Nasir should still be wearing a harness and empty pack even after he’s released the used parachute -- more on this later! -- but if the paramedics had found Nasir wearing that, they would have realized there was no motorcycle involved. (FYI, if you’re caught base jumping, the authorities get Very Angry and stuff. So Nasir is totally better off having a “motorcycle” accident.)
> 
> Also, Las Vegas emergency responders (paramedics and ER doctors, etc.) would probably know the difference between a helicopter and motorcycle helmet (and also accident scenarios). I’m sure EVERYTHING has happened at least once in a big, crazy place like Las Vegas. (Yes, I have been there and, yes, it is crazy.)
> 
> In summary, I know how unrealistic the scenario in this fic is, but this is Fictionland so I do what I want, m’kay?
> 
> ONE MORE POINT! What does it say about Nasir’s lifestyle that, when his husband needs to relax, Nasir calls an escort? Pretty sure Agron would have been THRILLED with Nasir just giving him a back rub, y’know? From this, you can infer (if you want) that Nasir did not “attend to his dominus’ needs” like is implied in the TV show. In this fic, his go-to response was to call up a beautiful woman to take care of the issue.


	11. Living Room

“Dude!” Duro shouted and then groaned at how the sudden expulsion of air jostled his wound.  He made another attempt, softer this time: “Dude, I was gonna take a header and you just--fuck--you came outta nowhere and took that bullet--”

“That bullet,” I interrupted, pointing to Duro’s wrappings, “bounced off of my helmet and hit you instead.”

“You pulled me back from the ledge.”

Maybe I had, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet.  I asked Chadara, “Did you get the bullet out?”

“No.  It may have breached the peritoneum.”

I gave her a look, prompting her to explain in laymen’s terms.

“If it penetrated the abdominal cavity, he’ll need surgery.”  She shrugged.  “There could still be internal bleeding.  I did what I could for him.”

And considering that Chadara was pre-med, paying her way through school by working as an escort, that was a lot more than the average person could have done.  “Thank you, doctor.”

She slugged me in the arm.  “Don’t jinx it!  But seriously, this guy needs a hospital.”

And since hospitals were required to report all patients arriving with gunshot wounds, Dominus would know he was alive.

My God.  Agron’s swift arrival at the hospital with _****Nasir Fleischer’s****_  expired student ID in hand had saved my life.  No doubt about it.  Now we had to finish the job of saving Duro’s.

“Let’s get him in the van.  Chadara, are you coming with us?”

“Kinda have to, don’t I?” she retorted glumly.  I supposed she did.  If she stayed, she’d be a sitting duck for Dominus’ men, who specialized in interrogation and disposal.  I’d never witnessed or arranged for it personally, but I’d overheard enough oblique references to know this was not an uncommon practice.

“For now,” I agreed, patting her shoulder.  “We’ll figure something out as soon as we can.  Go pack a bag.  Cash and IDs,” I gently reminded her.

She left the room and I sank down onto a bar stool at the yellowed Formica island which separated the living room from the kitchen.

Agron was petting his brother’s head, murmuring in German, aiming his smile alternately at Duro and at me.

Not that I deserved it.  He didn’t know the whole story -- Dominus wouldn’t have killed Duro.  Not after he’d proven himself willing to die for the sake of another.  With leverage like that, Duro would have been molded like wet clay.  No, Duro had been suffering from a gunshot wound for nearly two days because of my fucking amnesia.

I dropped my head into my hand.

“You OK?” Agron asked, his quiet earnestness cutting across Duro’s soft snores.

I was not, but I’d deal with that later.  “We need to make up a place for him in the van.  Chadara?” I called out.

“Next to the sliding door, reclining with the seat back!” she shouted before I could holler my question.

Nosey, eavesdropping woman.

Agron got up but ignored the front door, detouring toward me and ghosting a soft kiss against my cheek.  “Thank you, Nasir.”

I bit my lip.  Nodded.

He left.

“Your name’s Nasir?”

I snorted.  If Chadara was a shameless snoop, then Duro was an unapologetic faker.  Those snores had been completely manufactured.  Probably just to free Agron up for doing the heavy lifting, which no one else here was equipped for.

Duro was watching me thoughtfully from the sofa.

“It’s safer than ‘Tiberius’ at the moment.”

“You worked for that scumbag.”

“Yes.”

“Does my brother know?”

“Yes.”

Duro shook his head.  “I don’t get it.”

Neither did I.  “Agron got me out of the hospital safely.”  And I owed him for that.  A debt I would not let go unpaid.

 _ **That,**_  Duro and I both understood.


	12. Road Trip Revelations

It was a two hour drive east to Mesquite, Nevada on a good day.  We were either blessed or cursed that it was rush hour.  Cars crowded each other on the Fifteen, but moving with the flow of traffic permitted Agron to drive inconspicuously well over the speed limit.

Chadara was sitting in the back with Duro, keeping an eye on his condition.  I was riding shotgun, giving directions.  Southern Nevada was a place I knew, even though I could clearly recall my apartment in San Diego.

San Diego was the respectable front.

Las Vegas and its surrounding desert was where Dominus came to play.

How many bodies had his “cleaning crew” disposed of in these no man’s lands?  What would the men charged with getting rid of Duro’s body say about the fact that there’d been no body to collect?  I prayed they lied.  I prayed they lied their asses off.

The fact that Chadara had herded Duro down the service stairs, into an elevator, and stuffed him into a taxi without anyone coming by her place to ask questions about it seemed to indicate that Dominus remained in ignorance.

“I saw the whole thing,” Chadara suddenly announced.  “On the roof.  Why would you do that, you idiot?”

I glared at her over my shoulder.  “Why were you even there?”

Chadara was always professional, arriving and departing exactly on time.  Dependable.  Fifteen minutes after the conclusion of the appointment, she should have been in the back of a taxi.

“Dominus offered me five G’s to accompany him for the weekend.”

Chadara had always been his favorite.  There was a reason I’d had her number memorized.

“I told him I’d have to rearrange my schedule.  I was in the stairwell, on the phone.”  Her eyes lost focus as the memory surged forward.  “What did he say to make you jump in front of a bullet like that?”

“How’d you walk away?” Agron wanted to know.

Chadara shot him an irritated look.  “As soon as Duro hit the deck and Nasir went over the edge, I got my ass back into the stairwell.  Pretended to be finishing up my call.  But then Ashur came to tell me the offer had been withdrawn.”

And had compensated her for going to the trouble of canceling her appointments, too.  Standard procedure.

“And a fucking taxi just happily toted you and a bleeding man to your little shithole of an apartment?” Agron sneered, shocking me.  I’d never seen him like this before.

“Two words, dumb fuck: black shirt,” she shot back.

Agron nodded, accepting her explanation.  Sensing my puzzled glare, he glanced over long enough to offer me a wink.

Ah, interrogation.  Agron-style.  Well, riling Chadara up was guaranteed to produce results.

“Where’s Sura?”

Agron smiled at his brother in the rear-view mirror.  “Who?”

“Sura,” he repeated on a slurred mumble.  “She was right there--at the helicopter--God it was loud and--what happened to her?”

I stared hard at the glove box.  “I don’t know,” I confessed.  Presumably, the woman whose life I’d attempted to save was still with Dominus.

“We gotta find her.  Agron, we gotta find her, OK?  She’s got a bun in the oven, man.”

My eyes squeezed shut.  Fuck.

“First, we’re gonna get you to the hospital,” Agron placated in a tone that was as soothing as his earlier one had been provoking.  “Then I’ll look into missing person’s reports, OK?  Her name’s Sura?  Sura what?”

“Thrice--no, Thrace,” Duro grunted.  “Sura Thrace.”

Agron looked at me.  I shook my head.  I didn’t recognize the name, but I did recall the figure of a slender yet curvy woman with long, dark brown hair and a fearless, all-seeing gaze.

Her name was Sura and, without a doubt, someone was looking for her.  Her and her unborn child.  And as soon as Dominus cottoned on to the latter, he’d order it dealt with.


	13. Emergency Room

The hospital staff didn’t believe our story about a mugging gone wrong.  That was fine.  They weren’t meant to.

“Playing around with guns in residential areas is a serious offense,” the emergency room doctor lectured as he cut away the gauze.

“There was no playing around,” Duro wheezed.  “Trust me.”

That also didn’t matter.  The hospital would have to call the police.

“Your brother doesn’t have ID,” I whispered to Agron under the unflattering glare of the florescent lights.  As relieved as I was that Duro wouldn’t need surgery and, barring serious infection, would heal in time, he was still very much at risk.  If his name went beyond the walls of this hospital…

Agron whispered back.  “Got it covered, babe.”

When Officers Donar and Lugo stomped into the waiting room, demanding our statements, Agron handed over his ID as well as mine and his brother’s without a second’s hesitation.  I stuck to the script as closely as I could what with Agron’s hand on my shoulder and his thumb rubbing back and forth over the base of my neck beneath my hair.

Officer Donar glowered.  “There could be criminal charges filed if it’s determined any of you discharged a gun in a residential area.”

“Criminal charges,” Officer Lugo grunted, scribbling dutifully on his clipboard.

Regardless, no charges would be filed today, and we’d deal with it if they eventually were.

After the officers left, Agron nodded toward Chadara where she was curled up in a chair in the corner.  “Do you trust her?”

It was an unfortunately necessary question.  I wanted to trust her, but Dominus would offer a sizable sum in reward for information on our whereabouts.  Besides, how could I know whether I remembered _****enough****_  for my judgment call to be trustworthy?

“We should hydrate,” I said by way of answer.

Agron accompanied me down the hall to a bank of vending machines.  I leaned my crutches up against the wall and sat at one of the little, round tables while Agron punched out a pair of waters for us.

“I called in a favor before we got on road,” he told me quietly.  “Some people I trust are going to be here keeping an eye on Duro.  I have to head back to the city.”

“Your job interview!?” I squawked, bewildered and incredulous.

Agron’s jaw locked.  He glared at the bottle’s illustrated label and bit out, “I lied.  There’s no interview.  There’s a job.  This job.  It’s half done.”

Half done.  Duro was found and hopefully out of immediate danger, which meant--

“You’re gunning for Dominus.”

“Can you give me any reason why I shouldn’t?”

“You’ll get yourself killed.  Agron, walk away.  You’ve got your brother and you’ve got--” _****me.****_   I chomped down on my lower lip before that little fun fact popped out.

Agron hunched down, chased after and caught my gaze.  “I’ve got my brother back and…?”

I pursed my lips, rolled them inward, stretched them wide in a grimace.  “And you already almost lost one husband this week.”

He stared at me for a long moment.  “You know there was no motorcycle accident.  My bike -- my dad’s bike -- is safe in storage.”  His gaze dropped before he seemed to force himself to look into my eyes again.  “I’ve tried very hard not to lie to you.”

Because lying would have been counterproductive to the return of my memories, which would happen faster the more familiar things I had contact with, but straight up truth might have sent me careening back toward Dominus before I possessed the information necessary to appreciate the severity of the consequences.

I acknowledged, “But you haven’t been completely honest, either.”

“I meant it when I said I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you.  That’s why I’m asking you to stay here.”

“No.”

“Nasir--”

“No, you don’t understand.  I know things.”

“Not enough.  How long have we been married?” he tested.

I reared back.  I had no answer.

Head tilted in reluctant submission, he explained, “The way we met -- you and I -- it’s not all puppies and gumdrops, OK?”

“You believe I’ll remember and I won’t trust you anymore.”  I grabbed his chin when his gaze slid guiltily away.  “Or do you think there’s some shred of loyalty in me for that monster?”

“What?  No!  I just--”  He closed his eyes and enfolded my hand in his.  I felt each condensation-chilled fingertip acutely.  “For weeks, I’ve been trying to deal with not knowing if Duro was alive or…”

I caressed his cheek, waited for him to finish his thought.

“If anything happens to you…”

Again, he was at a loss for words.  Which said more than enough.

“You are a good man,” I stated, “and he is not.  That’s all the reason I need to go with you if I cannot stop you.”

Agron shifted our hands, burrowing into my palm and pressing soft kisses to my fingers.  Expressing his devotion and reverence in silence.  The fear was still there, though, felt rather than heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> American ID Things. Neither Duro nor Nasir have their wallets on them, yeah? Those are long gone. So Agron hands over Nasir's student ID and Duro's first driver's license, which Nasir doesn't get a good look at because seeing it would be a distraction at this point in the story. (In the U.S., driver's licenses are issued by the state and not the federal/national government. I'm not ready to tell you where Agron and Duro are from... yet.) But, OK, basically, Americans get their first driver's license (with their photo on it) when they're 16 or 17 years old and it's valid for 3 years. So Duro is definitely old enough to have renewed his license at least once. I'm not 100% sure, but I don't think you have turn your old one in. Since the expiration date is right there on it, you can't use it for driving.


	14. Agron's Team

“There are some more people you need to meet,” Agron told me on the drive back.

Chadara had been livid about remaining in podunk Mesquite.  At least for the time being.

I had struggled with my own temper when I’d recognized the “favor” Agron had called in.  The sporty blonde from the lobby and the man in the cuffed khakis: Saxa and Harudes.

“Call me Rudy,” he’d jovially insisted as though he’d be sticking around to become pals.

Theirs weren’t the only faces I’d found familiar.

The taxi driver who’d taken us out to where the paramedics had found me was called Totus.

The man from the elevator was named Rabanus.

“They’re all on my team,” Agron reported, chest puffing up a little.  He was practically glowing with pride.  He was probably trying not to look too ridiculous.  He was failing.  “Although Rab’s a P.I. who works in California.  So’s Lydon.”

Lydon, who I had never met but who had, apparently, very much exceeded the speed limit in order to arrive in Mesquite before us so he could get set up to intercept and reroute the hospital’s call to the local police department.  It had been his voice on the line, acknowledging the report of a gunshot wound victim and promising to send a unit out.

“So, Officers Donar and Lugo…?”

“My team.”

“But… their uniforms…”

“Adult novelty stores have _****everything****_  in Vegas.”

Yes, that was true.  “I’m just glad there wasn’t any music playing.  That’s a show I’d rather skip, thanks.”

Agron barked a laugh, slapping the steering wheel.  “Fuck, they almost blew it no less than ten times!  Those two fucks couldn’t keep a straight face if it was drawn on with a T-square and permanent marker.”

At that, I had to chuckle.  But.  “Who else?  Lucius?”  Was the old guy in the hospital in on this scheme, too?

“Lucius, yeah,” Agron shocked me by drawling in agreement.  “He’s not technically with me, but he was watching out for you until I got there.  I owe him a nice bottle of bourbon for that.”

A complete stranger -- one old man -- had positioned himself between me and anyone who could have come through that hospital door.  What if my first visitor had been Ashur?

“Why?” I needed to know.  “Why would Lucius…?”

“Because if we don’t all work together, then that sick fuck Dominus--”  Agron was incapable of simply saying the name; he spat out each syllable, shoulders hunched and knuckles white.  “--is gonna keep on shooting people and tossing them off of rooftops.”

“Keep talking and I’ll start thinking you married me just so you could get close enough to kill my boss,” I grumbled weakly.  Numb.

“Hey,” Agron called.  “Hey!  Look at me.”

Despite the fact that we were barreling down a highway just after dawn, I did.

Chin tucked down, he vowed, “I will spend every day for the rest of my life with you if you’ll let me.”

“Whether or not Dominus is still alive?”

“Whether or not that sack of shit is still alive.”

I didn’t say anything until our exit loomed a mere two hundred meters ahead.  “Thank you, Agron,” I whispered.

“Hm?”

“For telling me about your team.”  He was trusting me with their safety.  Counting on me.  Including me.

“You saved my brother’s life.”

“No, Agron--”

He held up a hand.  “Yeah, that was a shit bounce that bullet took, but you pulled him away from the ledge after that.”

“But, Chadara--”

“Also saved his life.  I know.”

“And the ER doctor--”

“Yeah, so I’ve got lots of people to buy thank-you gifts for.  That what you’re saying?”  He dimpled at me.

I flicked his ear, rolled my eyes, and shut up.

It was now officially morning rush hour and I itched to wrap my hands around a cyclic and a collective.  Helicopter was the only way to commute, in my opinion.  An opinion which, disturbingly, I shared with Dominus.  First, last, and only, I hoped.

Still.  Learning to pilot a helo.  I could remember those lessons now.

“What’s that smile for?” Agron wanted to know as we pulled into a grimy parking garage.

I could feel the smug smirk on my face.  “I can fly a helicopter.”

He giggled at my declaration.  “If this is your way of asking me to join the Mile High Club, I am all in.”

“One piddly mile?” I teased.  “Why not double or nothing?”

“Oh, babe,” he groaned through a cheek-cramping grin, “I love the way you think.”

I’d just bet he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I cannot confirm that adult novelty stores (a.k.a. sex shops) have EVERYTHING in Las Vegas. But strippers have gotta get their imitation uniforms from somewhere (because they'd need proof of employment with a police department in order to get real uniforms). So Donar and Lugo are totally wearing snap-off looks-sorta-like-a police uniform. And since Nasir and the hospital staff are expecting to see actual cops, they don't take a closer look. But yeah. Donar and Lugo now have some fun souvenirs to take home from their trip to Vegas. Cue the siren. (^_~)


	15. Itinerary

Mira was not pleased to meet me.  That was clear even before she tersely inquired to Agron, “Could I have a word with you?  In private?”

He gestured for me to take a seat and I stared blankly at the computer monitors as they cycled through various security viewpoints in casinos and hotel lobbies, plus images from traffic cams along the Strip.  Hacked video feed.  Live.  Nicely done, but it wasn’t going to get them anywhere near Dominus.

“I cannot believe you!  No, wait, I can.  You fucking Germans always thinking with your dick--”

“Jealous that yours isn’t seeing any action?” Agron asked, sweetly sympathetic.  I had to mash my lips together to keep the laugh at bay.

“--and parading around without pants on of any kind--”

“Totus got his hands on some wine coolers, eh?”

“--no respect for personal space--”

“Lugo gives great hugs.”

“--can’t keep your hands or lips to yourselves--”

“OK.  That’s my bad.  I should’ve warned you about Saxa.”

“--and you all think you’re so cute and charming and irresistible--”

“Hey, some of Rudy’s knock-knock jokes are actually funny.”

“--with the maturity of toddlers, banging around at all hours--”

“I told you they’d be memorable house guests.”

“--and now you bring _****him****_  here -- _****here,****_  Agron!  I just--”  A pause as she either threw her arms up in the air or buried her face in her hands.  I did not turn around and check.  “Please tell me he at least screamed out Dominus’ real name while you two were fucking.”

“You want his name, all you ever had to do was ask,” I mused, swiveling Mira’s office chair around and making no attempt to look apologetic.  “Or was I not supposed to let on that I can hear every word you two are saying?”

Agron beamed.  Mira glowered.  “Fine.  Here’s me asking: what is Dominus’ real name?”

I told her.

The joy slid from Agron’s face.  Mira blinked.

“See?” I continued wryly.  “Knowing it doesn’t help.  But if you had someone who managed his schedule and arranged his itineraries, someone who spent a minimum of eighteen hours a day with him for years, someone who knew every detail about his life -- right down to the X-men themed toilet seat cover he squats on to take a piss and the exact water temperature he prefers in his Jacuzzi for fucking his--”

Mira held up both hands to ward off the visual.  “I’m gonna be sick.”

I skipped on to the punchline not because she looked genuinely ill, but because Agron’s expression was approaching murderous levels.  His hands were curled into fists, knuckles white.

“I was supposed to fly him, four bodyguards, and one passenger to his villa in Death Valley--”

“Death Valley is a national park,” Mira interrupted.

I arched a brow.  “Which makes it more exclusive and, thus, desirable real estate.”

“Ugh.  The fucking wealthy.”

Agron looked away to glare at a paint-by-numbers of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, but he didn’t disagree.  Neither did I.  Instead, I opened up the printer tray and retrieved a clean sheet of paper.  I slapped it down in the only open space on the cluttered desktop and started writing.  My hair fell annoyingly over my brow, but I didn’t let it slow me down.  Mira wanted proof that I was a team player.  Well, here it was.

Moments later, Agron’s hands began pushing the tendrils aside, tucking them behind my ears and then resorting to holding them in place.  Hair bands: I should invest in some.  Or just hire Agron to be my hair boy.  From Mira’s grumbling, I doubted he’d offer much in the way of objection.

“This,” I said, passing the paper up to Agron for him to give to Mira or, as I secretly hoped, hold it high above her head and make her try to leap for it, “was the original itinerary.  I don’t know if things have changed since, but invitations were issued well in advance.”

Agron glared hard at the outlined schedule, teeth grinding, before thrusting the paper toward Mira without a word.

She sighed heavily.  “Well, this explains a lot.”  Dropping her arm, she informed us, “Including why Naevia missed her check-in and Spartacus has vanished off the face of the earth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FunkyinFishnet portrayed Mira as a very capable tech/computer/security system expert in the fic “Two Hearts With Accurate Devotions” which, given Mira’s role in the TV show (when she opens the gate between the ludus and the villa proper), makes so much sense to me that it is now my Modern Day AU Mira headcanon.
> 
> Mira and Agron are both disturbed and pissed off by the implication that Nasir was metaphorically chained to Dominus’ side 24/7. For all intents and purposes, Nasir was the man’s slave.
> 
> I’m not going to tell you WHY knowing Dominus’ name isn’t enough to stop him. Basically, his family is very powerful. You can decide in what capacity. Suffice it to say, this guy can literally get away with murder.
> 
> Lydon (who works as private investigator in California, specializing in surveillance and fraud detection) got the equipment he needed in order to reroute the call from the hospital in Mesquite from Mira’s hardware stash.
> 
> When Agron went to his “second interview” (just before Chapter 8), he was actually at Mira’s for a meeting to exchange information. But Spartacus didn’t show and Naevia hadn’t checked in. So that’s why Agron was stressed out at the beginning of Chapter 8.


	16. Spritzer

“Looks like we’re going to have to send Gannicus a spritzer,” Mira grumbled.

“Gannicus?”

“Freelance consultant,” Agron elaborated, leaning over my shoulder to tap the computer screen showing a long-haired, thirty-something guy lounging at a slot machine, feeding in nickles with an air of boredom.

Mira keyed her earpiece and spoke to whoever was on the other end.  “Signal Gannicus.”

I opened my mouth to ask how many suicidal morons had been convinced to participate with what was looking like a very complex, layered operation... but the hard sheen in Agron’s eyes and my own common sense dissuaded me.  I’d insisted on being here; all he needed was one reason to call up Donar and Lugo to pack me off to Mesquite.  I was not going to supply it by voicing doubt.  Not with Mira still watching me like a turkey vulture.  I did have a broken leg, after all.  In the desert, I’d be dinner waiting to happen.

A tall, slender waiter, clean-cut and courteous, appeared at Gannicus’ elbow with a fizzing drink on a serving tray.

Gannicus sighed visibly, scooped up the cocktail, and pulled out his cellphone.  Mira put the incoming call on speaker.

“What?” the scruffy man complained.  “I’m about to hit the jackpot here.”

“We found Spartacus,” Mira informed him, words clipped short and sharp.  “He’s in the big house.”

“Ah, fuck.  Got himself thrown in the tank?  See, this is why y’all should’ve let me take him drinking.  I know places that’ll let ya sleep it off under the table--”

“No!  He’s in the--BIG--HOUSE,” Mira repeated.

Gannicus froze, every muscle beneath his Aloha shirt tensing.  “Oh.  Shit.  Send your manservant Lysandros back over here to toss me out on my ass.  I’m coming to you.”

The man tucked his phone away in the pocket of his torn off shorts, appeared to count to ten, then he took a long pull from the spritzer before grimacing with his entire being and shouting something that I couldn’t read on his lips from this camera angle.  It must have been not very nice, because he threw the glass -- straw, ice, half-finished drink, and lime garnish included -- at an unoccupied slot machine.

The waiter -- Lysandros -- returned.  There was a scuffle.  Gannicus’ bucket of nickles crashed to the carpet, coins spraying and spilling.  The irate man was escorted off camera.

I didn’t ask why they’d put on a show; in Vegas, there was always somebody watching.

Mira was already calling someone else to pick him up.  “Tychos says forty minutes in this traffic,” she reported and stared at me hard.

“Oh,” I realized, “I’m in your chair.”

Agron held out a hand to help me out of it.

“Guest room,” she ordered us.  “If I hear any inappropriate noises…”

“You’ll what,” I challenged.  “Turn the hose on us?”

“After I get done enjoying the show.”  Her smile was pure evil.

Agron leveled an index finger in front of her nose.  “No cameras.”

“Too late.  My ‘house,’ my rules.”  She shrugged.  “Deal with it.”

I tapped Agron’s hip.  He relented, passing my crutches over.  The guest room itself was a hideous time capsule from the cheap-and-polyester 70s with faded, greenish-gray shag carpeting, but the bed was made up and it was big.  Heaven.  I collapsed on it in slow motion, sighing happily as Agron guided my cast onto the mattress.

“You’re a great husband,” I informed him, winning a chuckle.

“I’m very happy with my life choices.”  His fingers combed shallowly through my hair, nudging wayward strands off of my brow and neck.  He sat down beside me, his back against the laminated headboard.  “Duro said -- as I was getting him in van -- he mentioned the fights.”

The fights.  I closed my eyes and punished myself with memories -- the blood, the brutality, the roar of the crowd.  “I saw him that day,” I admitted, which was why I’d associated his name with a chant of approval, hundreds of voices pounding out each syllable over and over: DU-RO! DU-RO!

“He’s a fighter -- your brother,” I told Agron.  “Worked his way up from the lowest tier to the top.”

The only survivor out of thirty-two conscripted men who were starved, threatened, and stripped of identity in the weeks leading up to Tournament Day.  Duro had faced five opponents, one after the other, in life-or-death free-for-alls.  He’d taken a beating, but he’d gotten up each time.  Eventually, his opponent had not.  He’d killed five men with his bare hands, and I prayed I wouldn’t end up being the one to tell his older brother that.

“Duro won the _****privilege,”****_  I sneered the word, “to train with the Brotherhood.”

“The Brotherhood?”

“Men who are told they stand as gods of combat, but who are actually slaves.  Killing and dying for sport.”  I considered the ceiling tiles.  Duro had been a helicopter ride away from the Ludus, and once he’d crossed that threshold, the real brainwashing would have begun.

Duro and Sura.  Dominus had originally planned to showcase them both at his party.  Why he’d changed his mind about keeping her, I didn’t know.  He’d never issued an ultimatum like that to his newest acquisitions.  There’d never been a need.  Usually, they were simply grateful to be alive.

What Sura had been required to do to survive her “competitors,” I did not know.  I did not want to know.

I wanted my fucking amnesia back.

“Hey,” Agron breathed, squirming down to lie beside me.  I felt him take my hand, interlace our fingers.  “You saved him.”

I was tired of arguing the point.  If Agron wanted to paint me into a fucking spandex hero costume, he could go right ahead.  I turned my face toward his shoulder and nuzzled his T-shirt, eyes closed in escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “In Vegas, there’s always somebody watching” is pretty close to a direct quote from the movie “Ocean’s Eleven.” (Which I think is pretty close to the epitome of “show, not tell” storytelling.)


	17. Ear Wax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added a tag. WARNING: reference to past child abuse (non-explicit)
> 
> But, on the bright side, The Hallway Scene (from the TV show) is totally in this chapter... even if it's more of a Kitchen Doorway Moment. Still. Several key elements are there. (^_~)

Gannicus was fifteen minutes late, according to Mira.

“I had to take a leak!” he indignantly informed us.

“You had to buy a fucking lotto ticket,” Tychos disapproved.

Gannicus smacked the huge man in the shoulder.  “The jackpot’s rolled over three times, man!  And besides, I can never trust Sanus to hand over my tickets before the draw.”

Tychos ignored him and looked to Mira.  “Am I heading back out?”

Mira crossed her arms and looked at Gannicus.  “Have you been to Dominus’ villa out in Death Valley?”

His jaw rotated on a very slow, very reluctant drawl, “Yeeaah…”

“That’s the big house I was referring to.”  She quirked a brow as Gannicus tilted his head back and mouthed an expletive at the ceiling. In slow motion.  “Is Tychos heading back to his post?”

“No.  Fuck.  We’re calling everyone in.  I need coffee and intel and… fuck, where’re my guns?”

Agron headed for the kitchen to make very strong, very terrible coffee.  At least I’d gotten a kiss beforehand.

Waking up on that hard, bouncy mattress in the guest room with Agron curled up against my side and his long arm weighting my chest, I’d realized why this embrace had been both familiar and strange.

> “Go to sleep already!” I whined.
> 
> “Oh, c’mon, Nasir.  It’s your turn.  Something gross you’d never lick.”
> 
> I sighed.  Smiled.  “Ear wax.”
> 
> “Ugh.  Ewwww!”
> 
> _****Bang!  Bang!  Bang!****_   A fist pounding on the door.  Breath catching in my chest.  An angry shout: “Shut up and go to sleep or I’m getting the belt!”
> 
> My brother wrapped himself around me.  “I won’t let ‘im hurt you again.  OK?”
> 
> I nodded, too terrified to speak, but I clutched his skinny arm tightly with both hands in an unbreakable grip.

Not so unbreakable after all, as it had turned out.  My brother was gone.

One hiccuping sob.  That was all I’d allowed myself, but Agron’s lashes had fluttered -- my hand suddenly gripping his too-big, too-long, too-strong arm tight enough to leave bruises.  He’d shifted closer before I could decide if I should push him away or let myself be selfish for once.

“You’ll be going out there, won’t you?” I’d gasped out.

He’d promised, “And I’ll be coming back.”

His gaze had dropped to my lips, my chin tilting up like a reflex.  A soft, lingering touch of lips.  A kiss with no destination.  A simple demonstration that no one could force distance between us.

Being married to this man was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

Tychos appeared at my shoulder, startling me.  “I’m sorry.  Did I interrupt your reconn mission, little man?”

My eyes narrowed.  “Actually, you--”

“He’s my bodyguard,” Agron interjected flatly.  “Lay off or you’ll get hurt.”

I barred Tychos’ way with a single crutch.  “You don’t wanna find out what I can do with these.”

He grunted a laugh.  “If that’s the going rate for a cup of coffee, I’m desperate enough to take my chances.”

I lowered the crutch.  Agron passed him a toxic-looking mugful.  Tychos retreated silently to main ops in the living room.  Agron paused beside me on the threshold, a steaming cup in each hand.

“Is one of those for you?” I asked.

“If it is?”

“I didn’t notice a toothbrush travel kit in your back pocket.  Last chance for a--”

He caught my lips in a lusty merger of mouths.  I swayed dangerously on my crutches but didn’t stop licking at his tongue, and he didn’t stop trying to capture mine.  An arousing, wet slide of heat and, fuck, his flavor was incredible--

“Ahem!”

Our lips parted on a prickle that made the hair on my nape stand on end.

Mira was smirking at us.  “I’d better disarm you, big guy.”  She reached for the cups of coffee.  “I am not gonna put up with you whining about second-degree burns.”

With a wink at me, she sauntered over to where Gannicus was hunched over the itinerary I’d written, hands fisted in his hair.

“We gave her a free show, and she likes me now?” I sputtered.

Agron’s fever-warm fingers trailed up one side of my neck as he bent and nuzzled the other.  “This is Vegas.”

Huh.  He had a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am playing fast and loose with RL details again: the U.S. has a national Powerball lottery that Nevada residents can buy tickets for in other states (for instance, if they drive to the neighboring states of California or Arizona). It’s actually illegal to sell lottery tickets in Nevada, but as far as I know, it is still possible for residents to collect winnings from tickets bought in other states.


	18. Helicopter

The plan was slapdash, but it was the best we could manage on such short notice.  Having a helicopter standing by had helped.

This time, it wasn’t me at the controls.  Not with my leg fucking broke.  And besides, I’d be recognized on sight.  No, it was Mira flying the team in.  The team: men Spartacus had served alongside in the army -- Fulco, Sophus, Tychos, Peirastes, Hamilcar -- plus one big brother thirsting for vengeance.  Agron.  He was two hundred klicks away and my only tether was a fucking satellite link up, complete with a delay of up to three seconds depending on the available satellites and the number of times the signal would be forced to bounce from one to the other.

Three seconds could mean the difference between life and death where they were headed.

The Domus in Death Valley.  The place where, supposedly, Naevia was still acting as a personal assistant to one of Dominus’ many guests: Lucretia Batiatus.  The place where Spartacus was apparently a willing prisoner, lured by an untraceable call to his cellphone.

“Dominus must have promised an exchange -- Spartacus for Sura.”  Mira had shaken her head and turned away as every other gaze had fallen to the itinerary.

“Something like that,” I’d agreed, but we’d all known that was not what would be happening.

I’d given a quick-and-dirty seminar on what to expect and how to act.  I’d offered to make a call as Tiberius to a tailor who appreciated large bonuses and never asked questions.  Agron’s face as I’d dialed -- God, if this op went pear-shaped, I was as good as dead.

“We need this,” I’d stated, flatly non-negotiable.  He’d cuddled me close the instant I’d hung up.

Lysandros had made the pick-up, delivering the evening wear.

Fulco had shown up with the gear.  “Ready to go anytime,” he’d reported.  “Sophus is standing by at the airfield.”

Gannicus had let out a blustery sigh, pushing himself up from the warped couch.  “Let’s move out.”

Agron had hesitated and I’d wasted no time claiming the moment.  One last kiss.  Stale, instant coffee and _****Agron.****_   I’d dropped my crutches and clutched him instead.

“First, last, and only time?” he’d attempted to tease.

I’d picked up on the fact that I’d broken my own rule and gamely replied, “Spoiler alert: you’re getting a travel-size toothbrush and toothpaste for Christmas.”

“That’ll be a big hit.”

“And an interesting conversation piece in your pocket.”

We’d shared a laugh, a slower kiss, a look.  He’d scooped my crutches up from the floor and handed them over in silence.  The door had closed behind him.  Fulco’s van had pulled away.

And now here we were, Lysandros and I and a collaboration of computer monitors.

I guided Mira in.

Gave the signal for the team to make the jump.  Sophus repelled first.

“Hey, babe,” Agron dared over the radio.

“Don’t call me that.  What is it?”  

“Oh, just wondering.  How’s married life treating you?”

I barked a laugh, tension scattering like dust motes in the wake of a sneeze.  Just as he’d planned.  “I think it agrees with me.”

I heard him exhale.  “Good to know.  Keep the line open.”

“I’ll be here.”

And then he was gone, moving through the darkness, invisible in black-and-gray camouflage, night vision goggles in place and rifle angled for ready use.

I comforted myself with the reminder that I hadn’t only taught them where Dominus’ security cameras and personnel would likely be concentrated, but also how to detect them ahead of time, how to neutralize them, how to buy time if caught.

Agron would be OK.  All of them would be OK.

Taking a deep breath, I focused on the party crashing guests of honor.

“Mira, Gannicus, status update,” I prompted.

“We’re great,” Gannicus assured me through the mic sewn into his white shirt collar.  “Aren’t we, sweet cheeks?”

“If you eyefuck me one more time, good luck walking with stiletto heels skewering your balls.”

“In that case, hows about I help keep your leg warm?” he purred, referring to the slit in Mira’s gown.  In my defense, there weren’t many options in the way of women’s cocktail dresses that would allow for the operation of helo pedals.

“I would rather crash this fucking helicopter into the villa and kill us both.”

“Okie dokie.  Just trying to be a conscientious date.”

“Do you even know what that word means?”

“Sure I do!  Date, appointment, romantic outing--”

“Screw you.”

“Ha ha-ha!!  Now we’re on the same page, darlin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where Gannicus really starts to shine... and totally steal the spotlight. (At least for a little while.) (^_~)
> 
> Music rec: “The Devil Within” by Digital Daggers (both FuckinGauls and I get ALL THE FEELS from this song, so if you haven't given it a listen, you're totally missing out)


	19. Domus Tour

“Invitation, please.”

That voice.  Fuck.

Gannicus’ guffaw rebounded against my eardrum just as the monitor finally showed the man stationed at the helipad reception area; the tiny camera placed among the clips that held Mira’s artfully arranged hair atop her head provided a clear view, but the three-second delay was already a serious liability.

“Ashur!  You gonna pretend like we didn’t use to beat the snot outta each other?”

“No, of course not, Gannicus.  But I nonetheless must see your invitation.”

It was fortunate I’d managed to supply them with a convincing forgery.  Ashur would assume Gannicus had received it -- a “bonus” for services rendered -- from someone not in attendance.  Probably Licinia.  Last I’d heard, she was still in Milan.  “Sure.  No problem.  How’s that leg treatin’ ya?”

I bit down on a smirk.  Then glanced down at my own cast and buried a sigh.

“It’s holding up well,” Ashur replied with forced levity.

“Yeah, so I see.  Put on a few pounds, eh?”

I heard Ashur grunt as his lips continued to move on the monitor.  Fucking satellite lag.

“And you are?” Ashur asked, I assumed, of Mira.

“Inclined to keep all my men looking their best,” she purred.

Gannicus chortled.  “This’s my plus one.”

“Renting yourself out again, Ganni?” Ashur inquired conversationally.

“Aw, c’mon.  Don’t be like that, man.  I’m just tryin’ to show a lady friend a nice time.  Dom’s got the best bar in the southwest.  There still a bottle of that double cask Wild Turkey around?  That’s like slow sunset sex in your mouth, darlin’.”

“Is ‘Darling’ a first or last name…?” Ashur persisted.

“Mira Vasquez.”

That brought the two-faced shit up short.  “Vasquez,” Ashur eventually managed.  “I’m not sure I’m familiar with your particular branch of the family.”

“Everyone in Colombia is.”

Once upon a time, Ashur had made a practice of playing one cartel off of another at the whims of the highest bidder.  He’d eventually been forced to flee the country and had found himself in a group of thirty-two on Tournament Day.  He’d killed his first opponent before the command to begin had been given.

Ashur beamed.  “Welcome to the Domus!  The villa is yours.  Anything you find behind an unlocked door is at your disposal.  The entertainment begins at midnight.  Listen for the gong.  You won’t want to miss the show.”

And then they were in.

“Nice call with the drug cartel angle,” Gannicus muttered as soon as they’d made it past the checkpoints.

Rather than take credit, I warned them both, “Stay away from the bar, and do not go into any rooms no matter what, understand?  Also, the satellite connection is experiencing lag.  Do you copy?”

“Ooh!” Mira squealed.  A mounted painting filled my field of view.  “A Picasso.  I want one or two or maybe three.”

“Copy that, hot lips.  Why don’t I do my good deed for the day and give you a tour?”

“I can hardly wait.”

Gannicus started with what Dominus called “the cages.”  Dug down into the much cooler earth, labyrinthine corridors showcased the savages who would fight.  Party guests milled freely in the aisles, examining the men on display.

Gannicus merrily wished the boys luck.

Acer answered with hostile silence.

Liscus snarled.

Rhaskos barely broke from his posturing to nod a greeting.

Mannus, Fortis, Plenus, Varro… each and every cage held an occupant.  Including the shining star of the Ludus: Crixus.  He’d been a new acquisition the night Gannicus had slaughtered his way to ultimate victory.  Now Crixus was the veteran.

Catching sight of Gannicus, the man gripped the bars of his cage hard.  He barely spared Mira a glance as he rasped, “Naevia.  Have you seen Lucretia’s personal assistant?”

“Just got here, man.  I’ll keep a lookout.”

Crixus nodded, his expression tortured.

“Hey!” Gannicus hissed.  “You _****fight.****_   Fight for her.  Got it?”

“Got it.”

As they moved away, Mira asked Gannicus, “What can we do?”

He sighed.  “Look like we’re having a ball.”

Mira stumbled on the steps leading up from the dungeon, bracing a hand on the wall and giggling drunkenly as Gannicus very showily assisted with freeing the hem of her gown from the point of her stiletto heel.

“C’mon, darlin’,” Gannicus drawled, offering his arm.  “There’s lots more yet to see and the night is young.”

He was correct on both counts.


	20. Celebration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music rec: “Everybody Knows” by Sigrid (I get such "Blood-and-Sand / horrid-Romans-being-horrid" FEELS from this song)

The party was in full swing.  Servers clad in transparent silk with dustings of gold flecks upon their bare flesh circulated through the crowd… unless steered away to somewhere more private by an admiring guest.

Gannicus asked, “You ever met the Glabers?”

Oh, wonderful.  Given Mira’s feelings regarding wealthy, selfish pricks, that was a fantastic game plan.  I cupped my hands over my mouth to keep quiet.  My job was to listen and watch and speak _****only if****_  shit was about to hit the fan.

After ten minutes of shallow posturing and blatant ego stroking, Marcus Crassus barged into the conversation, his son trailing dutifully in his wake, and redirected Glaber’s attention to business opportunities in Cambodia.

Ilithyia excused herself to use the powder room.

Varinius chose this moment to send the young girls who had been hanging on his arms to pick out a room while he very casually followed Glaber’s wife upstairs.

“All business and no pleasure!” Cossutius laughed, inviting himself into the space vacated by Ilithyia.  The man was loose-limbed and jovial.  The room he’d just used and whoever was in it had undoubtedly been left in shambles.

Crassus was unimpressed.  “For the fortunate, business is pleasure.”

Cossutius scoffed and threw an arm around the man’s son.  “And does young Tiberius share your inclinations?  I regret to inform you, young man -- your education is lacking.”

Glaber snorted into his highball.

“Mira, get Ganni out of there,” I ordered mere moments before Cossutius bodily maneuvered Tiberius in Gannicus’ direction and was on the verge of making introductions.

“Oh, speaking of pleasures…”  The camera angle tilted and Mira whispered throatily, “I believe there are one or two you promised to show me tonight...”

“So I did, and I am a man of my word!  Excuse us, gentlemen.”

Glaber lifted his glass, toasting their endeavors.

Cossutius rolled his eyes and pointed instead across the room.  “What do you say we rescue Lucretia’s friend Gaia from that bore she’s suffering, eh, Tiberius?”

“Tiberius has no time for--” Crassus irritably interjected, but Gannicus and Mira were out of range before I could hear more.

A successful escape.  That was why I’d taken the time to coach Mira on what to say and how to treat her date; Dominus’ guests might not respect much, but they did acknowledge a wealthy woman’s prior claim and her right to enjoy the man she’d paid for.

“That was a close one!”  Gannicus chuckled.  “For a second there I thought I was gonna be earning my high class booze the usual way.”

The usual way.  Gannicus may have been allowed to walk away from the Brotherhood, but he’d never truly been free.  These days, when he was called upon to perform, it wasn’t on the sands.

“Gannicus,” I barked, “stop winking at Mira’s hairdo and pay attention.”

He singsonged, “You got it, baby cakes!”

In a contest of endearments, I’d settle for “babe,” thanks.

I tried not to think about Agron.  Silence was good.  Silence meant they were moving into position.

I glanced up and over at Lysandros.  I couldn’t see much from this angle, but there were six rows of continually updating GPS coordinates on his monitors, each below a window that showed infrared video.

The team was still mobile.  So far, so good.

The party guests speculated on the night’s entertainment in between sips of fizzy champagne or scotch-on-the-rocks: What were Dominus’ newest acquisitions?  Who would be the special guest appearing in the first death match?  What themes would they be treated to?  Would there really be only one victor left standing for the grand finale?

Yes, there would.  It had been a year; it was time to turn over the stock and make way for new blood.  Each of the three trainers that constantly jockeyed for sponsorship had agreed to supply their most experienced fighters for the bloodbath Dominus envisioned.  But only after a great deal of convincing.

“Such a spectacle!” a man named Octavius heartily endorsed.  “The likes of which we haven’t seen since the Arena’s inaugural games, eh, Gannicus?”

“Ha ha-ha!!  I can tell that you, my friend, can help me out.  This lovely lady here,” he said, including Mira in the discussion, “is inclined to place a wager and she’s in need of some sound advice: who do you favor to win tonight and share my illustrious title?”

Gannicus was boastful and flirtatious -- and seemingly harmless -- as he slapped shoulders and laughed at any joke no matter how wretchedly unoriginal or crude.

Mira stuck to his side.

Every time I caught myself counting my breaths, I forced myself to stop.

The gong sounded.

From out of nowhere, Ashur sidled into view.

“Wow, is this a personal escort?” Gannicus chortled.

Ashur tilted his head.  “It is, and it’s showtime.”  He gestured them toward the Arena.


	21. God of the Arena

Villas of Hollywood Hills had home movie theaters for private screenings and other masturbatory thrills.

The Domus of Death Valley boasted the Arena.

An open square surrounded by amphitheater seating and balconies overlooking the action below.  There were four entrance gates at ground level where fighters would step out onto the sands, but only one would typically live to see the inside of a cage again.

I took in the sea of faces, recognizing quite a few: Varus, Tullius, Mercato, Sextus, Seppius and Seppia.

Mira and Gannicus followed Ashur, my tension doubling with each step until a familiar set of curtains was swept aside revealing the luxuriously appointed interior of the reproduced pulvinus where Vettius, Solonius, and Batiatus already sat, awaiting the arrival of the editor.

“Gannicus!” Batiatus crowed, pushing himself upright to greet the one and only God of the Arena.  “Had I known to expect you, I would have brought a bottle of your favorite!”

Lucretia trilled a laugh.  “His favorite being anything corked in a glass bottle.”

Gannicus chuckled, but didn’t deny it.

Ashur indicated Mira’s seat but put out a hand to stop Gannicus from sprawling in the one beside her.  “Ah, you forget the rules, my friend: a favor for a favor.”

So Dominus was aware of Gannicus’ arrival.

Despite the looming threat, Gannicus’ cheer was undiminished.  “And what does my honored host request of me?”

Ashur gleefully explained, “Dominus has arranged a special exhibition match.  If you would follow me…?”

Turning to Mira, Gannicus shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket.  “Well, darlin’, it looks like you’re gonna get to see your man in action after all.”

He draped the jacket over the back of his empty seat, and then stripped off his black bow tie.  I could hear several catcalls as the audience took notice of the man disrobing in the pulvinus.  He grinned at the ruckus and very slowly -- not unlike a Chip’n’Dale dancer slogging through a vat of molasses -- popped through the buttons of his shirt, which he then passed to Mira.  She clasped it to her bosom.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long,” Mira chided, and he pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek.

“Let’s do this,” the former champion declared and, with a wave to his fans, ducked out of sight.

The Arena buzzed with excited chatter until the go-ahead was given to announce the match.  As the man who took credit for molding the highest-ranking fighter, Batiatus stood and addressed the crowd:

“My dear friends, tonight we witness a rare event!  Gannicus, the God of the Arena, returns to the sands in an exhibition match to face not one but two opponents.  Caburus from the house of Vettius!  Arkadios from the house of Solonius!”

Three legendary fighters.  This would be a memorable match.

Gannicus, garbed in only tuxedo trousers, marched out onto the sands, arms raised to receive the roar of the crowd, a hard, leather billy club in each hand.

Caburus stomped from the neighboring gate, roaring his entrance.  Brass knuckles glinted from his fists.

Arkadios sauntered into the Arena, a length of blood-splattered chain wrapped around his right arm.

Years ago, weapons had been assigned at random, but Dominus no longer left such an important factor to chance.  Judging by the noise level of the crowd, they approved his selections.

The fighters took up position.

Batiatus shouted, “Begin!”

Gannicus, the shortest and least lethally armed, danced aside as Caburus, the largest and most eager, charged forward and took a swing.  Arkadios uncoiled the chain with unhurried fanfare.

I risked a glance at Lysandros’ monitors to check on the team, winced at their slow progress, but I didn’t say a word to either Mira or Gannicus, who was hopefully still wearing his earpiece, about drawing out the fight.

In fact, there was little to be gained by me watching the fight itself.  I scanned the crowd instead.

A particularly dramatic flinch and low exclamation drew my gaze toward the sand.  Arkadios had just taken a punch to the jaw by Caburus, who was struggling to unwrap the chain from around his neck.  Gannicus darted in and struck both men: Arkadios across the back of the skull and Caburus in the face.  A second blow--Gannicus delivered an upper cut to Caburus who stumbled back, pulling Arkadios with him--

I forced my attention back to the crowd, which cheered, cheered, cheered--

Back to Lysandros’ monitors.  Nearly there!

Caburus was now free but fallen, panting face-up on the ground.  Gannicus and Arkadios danced around one another and Gannicus ducked beneath the whipping length of chain.  On the next pass, Arkadios caught him around the legs and yanked--

Gannicus fell just as Caburus lurched to his feet and lunged for Arkadios--

The crowd!  The team!  Fucking focus!

Yet the blood and the empathetic roars constantly tugged at my gaze.

I checked Agron’s status: on-target.  Good.

The crowd flinched with terrible glee; Arkadios stumbled due to Gannicus’ strike across his kneecap; Caburus’ brass-gleaming grasp snapping the flailing man’s neck and--

Gannicus leaping into the air in his signature move, kicking Caburus in the face, toppling him to the sand.  Gannicus grabbed the chain and--

Within moments, it was over.  Caburus’ throat--crushed beneath the gore-stained links.

Those in attendance surged to their feet.

Gannicus climbed off of the corpse and stood.  Laughing and victorious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case it was unclear, Gannicus ended up fighting in the Arena because, even though he won his "freedom" a year ago, he is NOT a free man. When he shows up uninvited (with a date who wasn't arranged for him), there are consequences. Gannicus' fight is a mindfucking mix of "we still own you" and "you're not allowed to make your own decisions" and "remember what you're good at" and "only we can give you the thrill of battle" and so many other blatantly manipulative messages.
> 
> Gannicus is not surprised that he has to "pay his way" for crashing the party. Nasir isn't surprised, either. Nor is Mira. From this, you can (hopefully) infer that the possibility of Gannicus ending up in the Arena was discussed during the mission planning session (back at Mira's place in Las Vegas). I didn't drag you through the mission planning itself because I'd rather just get on with things and show you the mission. In order to maintain the tension, Nasir is narrating only the bare minimum right now.


	22. For Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready to learn who Dominus really is? (^_~)

“The team is in position,” Lysandros reported.

I held up a hand.  “Not yet.”

Gannicus had already completed his victory lap, bowing and beaming to the applause.  The gate had just shut behind him and villa staff were now dragging the bodies from the sand.

“They’re all in the cages,” I explained, “and there’s been no sighting of Dominus.”

As if on cue, the gas torches ringing the Arena flared and Mira’s head turned toward the back of the pulvinus.  There he was: Dominus came forward to receive the warm welcome of his guests.  There were two women at his back, heads bowed with obedience.

Sura and Naevia.

Sura, I had met on the rooftop.

Naevia, I had met well before that.

Dominus paused to congratulate Batiatus on Gannicus’ win, and then he shook hands with Vettius and Solonius.

“The evening has only just begun,” he reassured both men.

He then lifted his arms and the Arena echoed with silence.

“Thank you for attending my little gathering,” Dominus said with false humility.  “I hope you enjoyed the opening act?”

The applause assured him that it had indeed been a treat.

Dominus continued, “Tonight, my friends, allow me to present a very special match.  Tonight, two men fight…”  He paused and grinned, batting his eyelashes.  “For love.”

Snickers.  Soft snorts and Cossutius’ bark of laughter.

“I know, I know!”  Dominus raised his hands in playful defense.  “It is a trite theme, but let us entertain the notion.  This year, we have seen the mighty titans of Batiatus battle for glory against the legendary heroes of Vettius and the merciless killing machines of Solonius!  Now, let us compare.  Is blood spilled for the sake of a man’s love more stirring to the spirit?”

He gestured to the right.  “I give you Crixus, the Undefeated!”

The corresponding gate clanked open, the sound nearly buried by the cheers.  The man strode out onto the sands unarmed but showily clad in a gleaming belt and traditional subligaria.  He stopped before the pulvinus, expression livid, his desperate gaze fixed upon a woman therein.

The audience quieted and Dominus explained, “Crixus fights for his lover.  This--”  He curled an arm around Naevia, pushing her forward.  “--incomparable beauty.  Their tryst discovered, and it may be you, my friends, who reap the benefits!  If he falls, his woman is yours to share among you.”

My jaw locked.

Lysandros stiffened.

In the pulvinus, Lucretia smirked, smug and satisfied.

Bile churned in my stomach.  This offer was excessive even for a man whose thirst for violence and hunger for approval had been escalating for years.  I should have killed him myself when he’d been a skinny, pimple-faced teenager fascinated with video games and voluptuous women, but I’d been blinded by his father’s _**generosity**_ toward a shell-shocked and grieving child:

> “You’re safe now, Tiberius.  You’ve a new name and a new family.  The people who killed your brother won’t find you so long as you stay with us.  Here, I’d like for you to meet my son Numerius.  I think the two of you could do a lot of good for each other.”

But in the eighteen months since his father’s death, Numerius had done very little good and very much bad.

He was the youngest and the most recent member of this secret club for the appreciation of blood sports.  Therefore, he was the most driven to impress, happy to satisfy even the most twisted of appetites.

I should have anticipated this depravity years ago:

> “Tiberius, I’ll be your friend, but you need to do something for me.”
> 
> “What?”
> 
> “When it’s just the two of us, call me ‘Dominus.’”

Grinding my teeth together, I forced myself to focus on the monitor in front of me.

Numerius was gesturing to the left-hand gate now as a second combatant moved into the torch light.  I knew this man as well.  This was--

“Spartacus Thrace!” Numerius crowed and the crowd gasped and chortled and shrieked with glee.  “Yes!  The man who has caused so many irritants for us in recent months -- he now stands before you willingly, sacrificing every principle he holds dear!”  Numerius tugged Sura forward.  “For the sake of beloved wife… and child.”

My horrified gaze followed the movement of Numerius’ hand as he gently palmed her belly.

Her expression did not change.  Her eyes blazed as she looked upon her husband and he looked back at her, calm and composed on the cusp of a death match.

I had once believed there was nothing that could stop Numerius, but I’d been wrong.  Had I been there in that pulvinus right now, I would have torn him to pieces with my bare fucking hands.

He threw his arms wide and roared, “Shall we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be wondering why Sura is still alive despite Numerius’ clear intent to kill her on the rooftop (that Nasir remembered in Chapter 9). Numerius’ original plan was to kill Sura, essentially throwing down the gauntlet to Spartacus, who would surely come after him at the Domus to seek revenge. As a man with nothing left to lose, Spartacus would be spectacular in the Arena against Duro. (Maybe Numerius got this advice from Batiatus at some point?)
> 
> But with Duro shot, Numerius no longer had a new fighter to show off at his party against the “guest opponent” that Octavius mentioned in Chapter 20 (which he would have seen on the evening’s itinerary, which Nasir wrote down and gave to Agron and Mira in Chapter 15).
> 
> Cue Ashur: he stepped up (on the rooftop) and suggested that they contact Spartacus and imply a hostage exchange (Spartacus for Sura and her unborn child), but once Spartacus was captured, he’d be given the chance to fight for Sura’s release. In fact, Ashur even suggested a worthy opponent for the death match: Crixus, who Ashur had seen being intimate with Naevia. Two men battling for the fate of their women -- wouldn’t that make for a hell of a show!
> 
> So that’s how that shit went down. FYI.
> 
> ALSO, Nasir was never a true member of the Calavius family despite Titus' little welcome speech. They took Nasir in after his brother died, yes, but it was a guise. From Day One, "Tiberius" was property of the Calavius household.


	23. Lights Out

“Now,” I told Lysandros.

He gave the order.

All we could do now was wait for the team to go to work.

Meanwhile, in the Arena, Crixus launched himself at Spartacus with a roar.  No weapons, just bare-handed vicious brawling.  If Gannicus’ match against Arkadios and Caburus had been bloody and dramatic, this was primal.  Pure brutality.  Two desperate men fighting to save a loved one.

They grappled, tumbled, rolled.  Sand sprayed in their wake.  Blows landed one after another from fists, elbows, knees.

Crixus poised on top of Spartacus, a hand around his throat and a blow to his face--

Spartacus dug his fingers into his opponent’s crotch--

Crixus flinched, bellowed--

Spartacus knocked him aside and pinned him to the ground--

Though I could not see the man’s mouth from the angle provided, the way his chest moved suggested speech, but what could a man possibly say that would register through mindless terror and absolute rage?

And then it happened: the lights went out.

Murky darkness.

Puzzled silence.

Murmurs of confusion.

I could barely make out silhouettes in the fading, flickering torch light, but I could see _****enough.****_

Mira struck -- yanking one shoe off, she stabbed the nearest guard in the neck with the stiletto heel.  Claiming his Taser, she thrust its barbs into the man’s side-- _ ** **crick-crick-crick-zzzzzt!****_

In the faint, bluish strobe of the Taser’s charge, I glimpsed Sura trip the second bodyguard and grab for his weapon--

Naevia kneed Numerius in the groin and screamed, “Trust him, Crixus!”

Pandemonium.

I strangled my own desperation back as I directed Mira past the pulvinus curtain and-- “To the left.  Good.  Intersection up ahead.  Take the stairs on the right--”

My intimate knowledge of the the Domus led her along the shortest route to the cages.

“Door on your left -- like we discussed.”

She flattened herself against the wall and slid into the camera’s blind spot before reaching up and draping Gannicus’ shirt over the lens.

And then she scratched the tip of one stiletto heel against the metal door.

“Wait for it,” I quietly coached.  “Breathe.”

When the door opened, she was ready with the Taser.  The sole security room guard was expecting an assault above waist-level.  Apparently, getting Tasered in the knee was fucking painful.  I grimaced away from his agonized scream.  Fuck.  If the men in the cages hadn’t yet realized that some serious shit was going down, they surely did now.

Mira slammed into the room, blinking against the pulsing emergency lights and the glow of monitors sustained by auxiliary power.  She didn’t need me to tell her to lock the door and reset the entry code, but I did anyway.

What she needed from me, I quickly gave: the master override codes.

She was in the Domus’ security system in under a minute.  “Open the main gates first,” I instructed, heart pounding.

Oh, God, so many people were going to die tonight, but this had to end.  Numerius had to be stopped.  Batiatus and Solonius and Vettius.  Cossutius.  All of them had to be stopped and I had no faith in the ability of the law to convict them.

Let the world of privilege, hedonism, and violence that they gorged upon _****devour them.****_   Vengeance, one way or another, would be done.

“Now,” I told Mira, throat dry, “the cage doors.”

The computer screen blinked: _****command executed.****_

A fitting choice of words.

Mira startled and spun toward the closed door just as the mic attached to Gannicus’ shirt collar picked up the terrible roars of killers on the loose.

“I… I should--the shirt’s still covering the camera angle,” Mira whispered shakily.  “I should--”

“Mira.  You should stay right where you are.  You copy?”

“Yeah.  I, yeah.  Copy that.”

A very long moment passed.

The silence was choking.

She cleared her throat.  “So, we might be here for a bit.”

With a glance at Lysandros’ monitors, I confirmed that.  The team was approaching the villa from the now-powerless utilities bunker.  The first part of their mission was complete -- the villa was plunged into darkness -- and now they would enter through the service entrance and guide as many staff to safe, defensible areas as possible.  They had the necessary codes and night vision goggles.  Unless something unexpected happened, I wouldn’t be needed.

Mira suggested, “You should tell me about the first time you met Agron.”

I laughed, hard and sharp -- but oh so welcome -- and my smile was genuine.  “Sure.”


	24. A Tale of Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for the long-awaited and much-anticipated story of how Nasir met Agron...

“This was a waste of time,” the woman hissed, pacing back and forth in my kitchen.  I was currently tied to an extremely sturdy chair.  A fact I was not happy about at all.

“Hey,” the larger of the two massive men snarled.  “He might know where my brother--”

“Yeah, he might.  And he might tell us.  Or he might fuck us over.”  She sent me a baleful glare.  As if I had inconvenienced her by returning sooner than expected to find three trespassers in my apartment.  Oh, wait.  I had done that, hadn’t I?  “Just kill him and let’s get back to work.”

The second man slumped against the counter and pulled off his ski mask with a sigh.  “Naevia--”

“Good idea, Spartacus,” she mockingly congratulated him.  “Let’s give him our names and share a nice group hug.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Spartacus replied, wincing as he favored the spot where my heel had caught him high in the ribs, right side.  There really was satisfaction in a job well done.  “If he tells his boss about us, he signs his own death warrant.”

That was true.  But it was too much to hope that they hadn’t been seen on their way in or wouldn’t be seen on their way out.  Just because Dominus was out of town visiting his mother did not mean I wasn’t watched.

The big man -- and damn was he big -- just shook his head in exasperation.  “Fuck.  It’d be a mercy killing coming from us.”

So it was two against one.  I waited for this little democracy to play out to its inevitable conclusion.

“We’re not killing him.”

Naevia scoffed.  “So it’s to be torture, then?  Why didn’t you just say--”

“Stop.”  Spartacus pressed a hand against the kitchen utility drawer that she’d zeroed in on.  “Let’s discuss this elsewhere.”

They left the room.  I heard the door to my bedroom squeal shut.  I didn’t take my eyes off of the big guy.  He drummed his fingers against the countertop.  Nervous energy.

“They’re both fucking stubborn,” he said suddenly.  “Could be a while.”  Gesturing to the electric kettle, he asked, “You mind?”

No, by all means, leave behind as many incriminating fingerprints as you like.

Once he got the hot water going, he started rooting through cabinets, coming to a comically abrupt halt when he discovered my stash of--

“Tea?”  He held up the half-empty resealable bag of loose leaf that sat at the forefront of my collection.  “The fuck do you do with this?” he muttered.  He dropped it on the counter and rattled around, shoving half of his meaty arm into the cupboard just to be certain there was-- “No coffee,” he concluded.  “Who the hell doesn’t keep coffee?  At least for guests?”

“Someone who doesn’t have many guests,” I retorted.

“You like your solitude, huh?”

I did not dignify that with a response.

With an air of girded loins, he picked up the tea I normally drank no less than ten cups of daily.  “You gonna walk me through this so I don’t kill us both?”

“Just me?”

“Fuck.  I don’t wanna kill you, little man.”

“Don’t call me that if you want me to have any compunction whatsoever against killing _****you.”****_

He held up both hands.  “Maybe stick to teabags, eh?  You have a preference?”

“Turn invisible and go away.”

“I don’t see that blend.  How about some of this, uh, strawberry blossom and green tea?”

I snorted at the burgeoning disgust in his tone.  “It’s actually not bad.”  One of my favorites if I was completely honest, but too expensive for my mass consumption.

“OK.  I’ll trust you.”  He pulled two cups down from the shelf.  When the electric kettle beeped, he rushed to fill the cups.

“Stop!  Fuck, what the hell are you doing?” I complained.  “Put the teabags in first.  Loop the tab around the mug handle so it doesn’t fall in and fuck up your shit.”

He giggled.   _ ** **Giggled.****_   “Have you made a video of this, by chance?”

“You’re a visual learner?”

“Naw, I just think -- with your way with words and gift for presentation -- it would go fucking viral.”

Like his last one night stand, perhaps?

“Right,” he continued.  “Teabags dropped.”

I bit my tongue against the irresistible urge to poke a ruthless pun into that opening.

“You want some fancy bow tied in these?”

“No, a regular bow will suffice.”

“Great.  Now can I pour the fucking water?”

“Yes, I suppose it’s cooled enough not to scald the tea.”

I heard him mutter under his breath, “Scalded tea -- this shit’s not an issue with instant coffee,” and then he was pouring--

“Stop!  Wait twenty seconds for the flavor to release--”

“Now you’re just fucking with me.”

“Who’s tied to a fucking chair, here?” I snapped.

“And your final act will be to educate the guy who broke into your apartment on how to make a cup of tea?”

“A decent and correctly brewed cup of tea,” I haughtily replied.  “I take my tea very seriously.”

“No milk or sugar?” he punned.

Well, look who had a brain after all.  “Not with green tea, no, you oaf.”

“Oaf.  I resent that.”  But he prepared the tea as instructed.  He’d make an excellent minion.

Like me.

The thought was sobering.

“Hey, now,” he whispered, setting the cup down on the table in front of me.  “I didn’t scald your tea.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”  He removed a wicked-looking hunting knife from his boot.  “Fair warning: I know how to use this.  I’d rather release your left hand and, maybe, we could have some fucking fancy tea and be friends.”

“Why?”

“Why what?  Release you?  If you’ve got another method for drinking tea, feel free to tell me all about it.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling.  Damn it.  “No, why bother with the friends act?”

He took half a step back and yanked off his ski mask.  “It’s not an act.  I think we could both use a friend.”

I gaped at him in silence as he carefully sliced through the cord.  I inhaled out of reflex and his scent was suddenly everywhere.

Our gazes met as he moved back and put the knife away.  “You’re right, you know,” I told him.  “If anyone finds out you were here, I’m--I’d rather you do it.”

“No one’s going to find out anything unless you tell them.”  He quirked his brows at me as if to ask, _****Comprende?****_

“Sure.  Fine.  Whatever.”  I took a sip of tea.  Sighed.  Even better than when I make it.  It wasn’t fair.

Across the way, he mirrored me, sipping slowly.  His swallow was cut off by a gag.  “Ugh.  Fuck.  What is--you have got to be kidding me.”

“Not bad,” I praised, just to see that blank-eyed, moronic look--yes.  That one right there.

“So you’ll keep me around to make your tea?” he teased, grinning and -- fuck me those dimples had to be artificially enhanced.

I took another sip.  “Maybe you haven’t figured it out yet, but people who work for Dominus don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

“Just don’t.”  God, I was so tired.  So tired of pretending I wasn’t owned, wasn’t property.  So tired of pretending I wasn’t aware of how cheap human lives were or how disposable.  “We can’t be friends.”

And there was no point in dwelling on what I couldn’t have.

“We could if you didn’t work for him anymore.”  He looked at me for a long moment.

I was close to cracking.  A breath away from asking him what he wanted.  A heartbeat away from giving it to him and to hell with the consequences.

He pushed away from the counter.  “I’m gonna get Spartacus and Naevia.  Get us outta here unseen.  OK?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you get yourself free from there?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“We won’t bother you again.”  He turned to head down the hall.

My voice stopped him.  “I might bother you.”

He quirked a brow.  Grinned at me over one massive shoulder.  “Then I’ll see you around, little man.”

“Nasir,” I sighed with resignation.  He faced me fully and I said the only thing I could think of that he’d trust: “My brother called me Nasir.”

His mouth twitched into a tight frown.  He blinked tears from his eyes.  Fuck, he really was looking for his brother.  The only trouble was once recruits were initiated into the underground fighting ring, the chances of them seeing the light of day again were slim to none.

“What’s your brother’s name?” I asked against my better judgement.

“Duro.”

I nodded.  “Duro.”  There was nothing I could promise to do if we crossed paths.  Nothing I could do except pray.

“Stay safe, Nasir,” he said.  I didn’t see him and his friends leave.  They vanished reassuringly like ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so Nasir didn’t recognize his own name at the beginning of this story because, frankly, he hasn’t used it in years. He’s been “Tiberius.”
> 
> AND!! Nasir snarks Agron through how to make tea… and Agron not only remembers the procedure but also the exact brand and blend of tea Nasir likes. Just, I love an Agron who makes a Genuine Effort.
> 
> This chapter ended up being well over 1000 words (which was the maximum word count I set for each scene). I KNOW I KNOW YOU ARE SO DISAPPOINTED. (^_~)


	25. FBI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready to find out who is FBI? (^_~)

“Hey, hot lips!  The coast is clear!”

Mira startled; the camera still attached to her hair clips jerked tellingly.  I pulled myself out of my own memories.

She checked the monitors.  Gannicus had retrieved his dress shirt and was waggling his brows up at the lens.  The main power had been turned back on.

“And see?  There’s nobody in the blind spot.”  He demonstrated this by rolling himself along the wall before smiling up at the camera again.  “So whaddya say we finish that tour?”

How the man could joke and grin like a loon with blood spatter drying wherever it wasn’t smeared by the sweat on his face, neck, and chest I did not know.  “The corridor appears clear, Mira,” I answered, “but keep that you-know-what.”

Hearing this, Gannicus winced.  “Oh, man.  Not the stilettos ‘s all I ask.”

It turned out that the corridor was clear and the man was capable of keeping his hands to himself.  Naevia met Mira at the top of the stairs and nodded both her and Gannicus over to where the team was waiting to escort them off the premises.

“You’re staying?” Gannicus blurted at Naevia.

“Somebody with a badge has to,” she answered.  “As you are aware, I missed my check-in.  If Batiatus’ mansion hasn’t been raided yet, it will be soon.”

“And about damn time,” Mira grouched.

“You think Oenomaus will talk?”  Gannicus appeared mildly curious at the prospect.

“If he doesn’t, my day planner will.  It--”  Whatever she’d been intending to say was interrupted by a raucous chorus echoing down the hall from the dining room.  Somebody had definitely found the bar.  Lips quirked into a near-smile, Naevia insisted, “I can’t leave these guys to the tender mercies of the FBI.”

Mira teased, “These guys or one guy in particular?”

Naevia barked a laugh.  “Yeah, I got attached.  Sue me.”

Mira put a hand on Naevia’s shoulder.  “It’s gonna take time.”

“Time and therapy.”  She blew out a deep breath.  “Lots of therapy.  For both of us.”

“Gannicus, Mira,” a new voice called out.  “The two of you should get going.”

Mira turned and suddenly I was looking right at a gore-splashed Spartacus and his exhausted but seemingly uninjured wife Sura.  Mira chided, “The FBI’s not going to be too thrilled to find their suspended agent here at this bloodbath.”

He pressed a kiss to Sura’s brow.  “Where else would I be but right here?  They can’t honestly expect otherwise.”

Sura squeezed her husband around the waist.  “Besides, you’re a terrible actor, moyat voĭn.”

Spartacus didn’t deny it: there was no point in sending him home to wait for the news that his wife had been found, and there was no force on this earth that would convince him to leave her in a villa filled with dozens of confused, angry, and increasingly drunk modern-day gladiators, no matter how capable Naevia and Crixus were of controlling them.

So Spartacus bid farewell to his team here:

“Mira, you always come through.  Thank you.”

Mira nodded.

“And Gannicus, it was good to finally work together.  I’ll stop hounding you about being a confidential informant.”

“Aw, and I was just warming up to the idea of risking my life for the good of others!”

Spartacus suggested, “There’s always the police academy.”

Everyone got a laugh out of that.

Agron -- and I knew it was Agron just by the way he moved -- took the time to clasp Spartacus’ hand.  “You got someone you can call if you need backup?”

“I do,” Spartacus assured him, holding up what appeared to be Numerius’ cellphone, scavenged from the bloodied remnants of an empire.

Agron nodded before telling Mira and Gannicus, “Let’s make ourselves scarce.”

“And get you back to the joys of married life!” Gannicus joked, slapping Agron on the shoulder.

Mira piped up, “Yeah, it’s your turn to tell us a story, Agron.”

He chuckled.  “Oh, I dunno.  Nasir’s a tough act to follow.”

Oh, fuck.  The line.  How many people had heard me reminisce about being tied to a chair, watching an intruder bang around in my kitchen and gag on my favorite tea?  I bristled, “You told me to keep the line open.”

“Yes, I did,” he answered, adjusting the mic controls and adding me to the channel he’d shared with the team.

I groused, “Don’t sound so fucking proud of yourself.”

“Hey, I’m just a guy who kept his word: I didn’t scald your fancy tea.”

“Because you listened to directions.”

“I had motivation,” he drawled, clearly uncaring of how many people could hear us.

“You pay that close attention to all the men you hold hostage?”

“Only the ones I really wanna impress.”

In the background, the shortest team member -- Fulco -- mimed sticking an index finger down his own throat and gagging.  The full face masks that he and the other guys were all still wearing sort of lessened the effect, though.

Agron backhanded him on the shoulder and pointed him toward the helipad.

“I don’t know about anyone else,” Mira mused with manufactured nonchalance, “but I wouldn’t mind finding out how that story ends.”

Agron didn’t answer with words, but from the hitch in his gait, I didn’t think Mira was the only one who was wondering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> moyat voĭn (Bulgarian) = my warrior  
> Please correct me if I’ve got the translation wrong (or offer a better suggestion if you have one) but I wanted a Bulgarian endearment for Sura to call Spartacus. Something that was more specific to the circumstances and characters than a generic “darling” or “dearest” or whatever.
> 
> Death Valley is one of the hottest places on the surface of the earth (other than an active volcano) and without constant access to water and/or air conditioning, there is a very strong chance that you will die (especially from May through September) and there is nothing around for miles. It’s a huge national park with not so many roads. Escape would not have been an option, so there wouldn’t need to be much in the way of locks on the villa’s outer doors because anyone who tried to make a run for it would not get very far. But being slaughtered by trained fighters? Yes, this would be a very real possibility, so the security system for the cages and gates has a backup power supply. (I checked and it appears that many home security systems do.)


	26. 3d 2h 19m

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t even try to keep this chapter under 1000 words. You can thank me later. (^_~)

I opened my eyes to golden sunlight.  I’d slept the day away.

And I wasn’t the only one.

I smiled down at the arm draped over my middle, followed it up to a slumped shoulder, a shadowed throat, a stubbled jaw, a familiar face slack with slumber.  Agron was probably drooling on that pillow.  I should not find that as adorable as I did.  Clearly, there was something wrong with me.

One of many issues that would have to be addressed at some point.  They certainly hadn’t been on the agenda earlier.  By the time Agron had shuffled over the threshold of Mira’s apartment, my demands had been boiled down to three words: “Take me home.”

The drive back to our hotel suite had been quiet but not tense.  Both of us had simply been too drained to manage anything resembling conversation.

At the door, Agron had hesitated.  “D’you want me to stay?”

“Oaf,” I’d grunted.  Reaching over the threshold, I’d grabbed the front of his shirt and tugged him inside.  We’d come too far for the seemingly daunting concept of self-propulsion to defeat us.

Maybe I was being overly optimistic, but I didn’t think there was much that could defeat us.  We’d made a pretty good team the last couple of days.  And as much as I wanted to lie here and enjoy that thought, my bladder was not gonna let me.

“Hey,” I rasped, voice thin from lack of use.  I cleared my throat and Agron shifted, inhaling deeply and smiling dopily up at me.

“Hey,” he answered, rubbing his palm along the side of my ribcage.

I told him, “I need a hand not breaking my other leg.”

He huffed a chuckle.  “Yeah.  OK.  I’m on it.”

Again, he pushed himself out of bed without jostling me.  I could only conclude that his bumbling panic at the hospital had either been a very melodramatic act or a very real freak-out.

After I finished using the bathroom and crutched myself through the bedroom and into the kitchen, I asked: “How’d it go down?  From your end of things, I mean.”

He glanced over his shoulder from where he was assembling caffeine fixings and abandoned that operation to pull the nearest chair out for me.  “My end of things?”

To his credit, he didn’t ask if I meant last night’s op.  “Yeah.  Lay it out for me.”

Agron scratched at his scruff, squinting in thought.  “Uh, well, Spartacus and I literally stumbled over each other on three separate occasions over the course of forty-eight hours before we--”  He paused, put out a hand, and started over again: “My idiot brother answered a call for talent posted on the fucking Internet and just took off for the promised land.  A couple of days after he arrived in L.A., his calls stopped.  At first I thought it was because he was tired of me telling him what a moron he was to haul ass halfway across the country just to get his face punched in…”

He stopped.  Sighed.  Skipped over what I could guess: Duro had thought he’d had what it took to make it big, be the next Golden Boy of middle weight boxing or world champion of mixed martial arts or what-have-you.  He wouldn’t be the first.

“Had a bad feeling, you know?  So I called up a colleague in the area -- asked Rab to check his hotel.  After a couple of days, Duro still hadn’t showed, so I flew out.”

But by then, Duro had already been sucked into the trap.

“Duro’s trail led me to a fight promoter named Batiatus, and I guess Sparts used to be the lead agent investigating the guy, but then Sura disappeared -- which was right around the same time as Duro vanishing -- and Sparts kinda lost his cool, earned himself some mandatory unpaid leave, but Naevia -- she’d been working undercover for months trying to identify everyone in Batiatus’ network -- she kept Sparts in the loop because I guess they’d seen some serious shit together.  I don’t know the whole story, but Naevia got close with Lucretia’s previous personal assistant.  A girl named Diona, who had some real bad shit done to her.  Sparts tracked her down and she was the one who provided a list of venues, like the one in Las Vegas where you--”  Agron stopped and, noting how I was massaging my temples, grinned apologetically.  “Sorry.  Tea first.”

I nodded.  “And then, we’ll go from there.”

He sat a bottle of water, a package of Oreos, and my prescription on the table.  I sipped, nibbled, and self-medicated.

The kettle whistled.  Agron got my tea steeping before pouring himself a cup of instant wretchedness.  He sat down across from me and we inhaled steam for a few minutes in silence, fighting the urge to guzzle and the inevitability of poached taste buds.

When I looked up, Agron was watching me back.  Waiting.

I pulled the Cal Tech ID from my pocket and traced its worn edges wistfully.  “For a while there, I really thought…”  I stopped and asked instead, “Where did you get this?”

“Lydon.”

“It’s convincing.”

Agron shrugged a shoulder.  “And not a federal crime.”

Unlike a forged passport.

I observed, “We both know for a fact that I was never enrolled at Cal Tech.”

“You could, though,” Agron insisted with such confidence that it snatched my breath away.  “You could do anything.”

I opened my mouth.  Closed it.  Assembled my thoughts.

“Check my math,” I said.  “Yes or no.”

He took a deep breath.  “OK.  Hit me.”

“Naevia passed my cellphone number on to Spartacus.”  As Lucretia’s personal assistant, she had contacted me more than once about event scheduling.  

“She did.”

Since the phone was paid for by a dummy corporation, they wouldn’t have been able to get my name or address from the contract, so…  “The FBI triangulated its signal to my apartment.”  A time-consuming but not impossible feat; my phone had always been turned on.

Agron confirmed my suspicions: “Yup.”

“After he was removed from the investigation, you, Naevia, and Spartacus broke in to tag my stuff for tracking, hoping I’d lead you to Dominus.”  A big risk for Naevia, who had still been undercover at the time.  The entire encounter could have been avoided if they’d had the equipment and access necessary for tracking my phone, but Spartacus had lost those resources when he’d been ordered to take a leave of absence.

“Uh-huh.”

I shook my head.  And then I had to ask, “How much of that tea business was an act to distract me?”

He coughed a laugh at his cooling coffee.  “I really was that clueless, and I really wanted you to _****want****_  to help us.”

No doubt Spartacus had felt the same.  In fact, his argument with Naevia over the possibility of torturing and killing me had probably been staged: an interrogation tactic meant to scare me into opening up to the third member of their group: Agron.

Looking at him now, I suspected he’d been affected by our exchange just as much as I had.  He chewed the inside of his cheek, brows pinched.  “I just--plans were still up in the air and a lot depended on where we ended up cornering that twisted fuck, but I didn’t want you to--to--”

When he stuttered to a painful halt, I suggested, “To end up in a pool of blood?”

He shuddered, jaw clenching.  “Don’t--it wouldn’t have come to that.”  The hard look in his eyes promised me that he wouldn’t have allowed it.

I idly tapped a rhythm against the ceramic cup.  What he would have done; what I would have done: both were irrelevant.  That was _****then;****_  this was _****now.****_

I observed, “The GPS trackers didn’t work, though.”  Because I always stripped down and suited up at the airfield; the only thing from the apartment that ever went beyond my hangar locker was my cellphone… which I was definitely not going to be picking up from the repair shop here in town.

In fact, everything that was in San Diego would stay there.  Spartacus and Naevia had given me an out.  There was nothing I owned that I either needed or wanted badly enough to risk getting caught in the net of an FBI investigation.  If Numerius, Batiatus, Solonius, and Vettius were all dead, then the FBI might redirect their energies toward building a case against me.

No.  I was not going to become a victim ever again.

The only part of my past worth keeping was my brother.  I now had those memories back.  That was plenty.

I lifted the teabag and watched it spin above the lip of the mug.  “How’d you find me in Vegas?”

“Lucius.  He’s local.  Homeless.”

My jaw dropped.  “You would take advantage of--”

Agron put up his hands in defense.  “He says that’s how he wants it and, anyway, if he needs something, he’s got Mira to pinch hit.  She’s a licensed P.I. here.  Knows Sparts from a couple of cases that brought him out this way before.  She pays Lucius to do surveillance, and he was tailing Batiatus, hanging out on the street next to the building where the fights were being held.  Lucius was the one who found you after your fall, cut away your parachute harness, called the ambulance, and bullshitted up that story about a motorcycle accident.”

OK.  A lot of things made a lot more sense now.  Including why Numerius hadn’t found me while I was still in the hospital; he would have had his people looking for a man wearing a parachute, not a survivor of a motorcycle accident.  It appeared I also owed Lucius a nice bottle of bourbon; he’d saved my life.

“Then he checked himself into the hospital complaining of hemorrhoids or something just to keep a weather eye on things until I could get an ID made for you.”  Agron shook his head in awe.  “Wish I’d been there to hear how that old cuss had sweet-talked the nurses into letting him room with you, though.”

I huffed a laugh at the memory of Agron’s foul-mouthed bluster.  I told myself it had not been endearing.  Myself wasn’t listening.

“Saxa, Harudes, Totus, Donar, Lugo -- they all went directly from the airport to the hospital,” he volunteered, “just in case some goons turned up looking for you.”

“And what were they gonna do if that’d happened?”

Agron bit his lip.  “Um, Saxa’s got a wicked backhand.”  Chagrined, he admitted: “Tennis.”

“Tennis,” I echoed flatly.

“She kills it on the court.”

I didn’t doubt it.

“And I really am a private investigator,” Agron said, “I’m just not licensed in Nevada.”

“Where?”

“Missouri.  I’m from Hermann -- with two N’s.  It’s a small town, and we look after each other.”

When I didn’t say anything, Agron rotated his still-full coffee cup between his splayed hands, right knee bouncing.  “Hey, I know, look--”  He sucked in a deep breath.  “I’m sorry.  Nasir, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Lying to you.”

I levered myself up, tucking both crutches in place under my arms.

“Wait, Nasir.  Wait!  Where are you going?”

“To find a husband who appreciates the fact that I’m not an idiot.”

“What?”  The legs of his chair squealed against the linoleum as he stood to meet my challenge.  “Of course you’re not an idiot!  But I lied--”

“You think I didn’t know?”  I huffed in disbelief.  “You’re a P.I. and you broke into my apartment -- either because you were investigating me or someone I know.  Most likely my boss, a powerful man who I never talked about because of a ‘confidentiality agreement or something.’”  I’d never used air quotes before.  It was an oddly satisfying experience.

“Agron, you laid all that out within the first twenty-four hours.  And you lied as much as you had to in order to keep your team safe and me alive.”  He must have been _****burning****_  to ask me about Dominus, but he hadn’t pushed.  He’d taken the time to earn my trust first and had never asked for what I was unwilling to give.  I shook my head on a long sigh.  “Trust me; I figured it out fairly early on.”

He licked his lips.  “You don’t hold any of that against me?”

“I’d have done the same if it were my brother.”  My eyes stung.  I looked away.  Pulled some air into my lungs.

There were no magnets on the refrigerator door and that was just wrong.

A large, warm hand settled lightly against my neck and that was right.  So very right.

“Nasir?”

“Hm?”

“Can I kiss you?”  He held his breath.

I answered the shy, hopeful tilt of his brows by angling my chin up.  He lowered his center of gravity by bending his knees.  Charmed by his consideration, my lips quirked, making him pause and reevaluate.  I glimpsed the barest of smiles before our mouths met.

He hadn’t had any coffee yet and the flavor my tongue encountered was all him.  Just him.  I moaned and he shifted closer, kneading my lips with his, both hands brushing against the sides of my neck.

I grabbed for the dangling ties of his waistband to hold myself steady.  Oh, God.

He pulled back on a needy whine.  His breaths puffed hotly against my lips.  His brow pressed against mine as I leaned into him and he kept us both from crashing to the floor.

“Ask me,” I ordered, opening my eyes and noting the time on the microwave clock.  “Test me.  Whatever.”

A helpless grin flitted across his lips.  “Nasir, how long have we been married?”

“Three days, two hours, nineteen minutes.”  But who’s counting?

He giggled, and I had to laugh at the utter joy he beamed at me.  Had to share in it.  Agron and I hadn’t been married until he’d thundered down that hospital corridor, calling my name.  Speaking of which…

“Is your name really Agron Fleischer?” I asked, reaching up to comb my fingers through his short hair.

“Agron Gerhard Fleischer.”

He laughed at my horrified expression.  “Thank God your parents went with ‘Agron’ first.”

“Thank God,” he agreed and kissed me again.  I barely heard the racket my crutches made when they toppled to the kitchen floor, but I noticed their absence when I had one hand clamped onto the back of Agron’s neck as the other was smoothing down his torso.

He broke the kiss on a gasp.  “We--fuck--your leg--cast.  Wait.  We gotta fucking wait.”

I grinned.  “OK.”  If what I was feeling through the knit weave of his sweatpants was any indication, it would be more than worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, I tried to stick as closely to canon as possible with the “first meeting” scenario (in Chapter 24: A Tale of Tea). Of course I changed some things: Naevia was there instead of Crixus, yeah? But a lot of aspects remained the same: strangers broke into Tiberius’ home looking for a way to get to his boss, and Agron was the one to successfully forge a connection with NASIR (but over tea instead of wine) despite a rocky start. (^_~)
> 
> I thought it would be interesting to explore Nasir’s character as being MORE trusting when he has amnesia, which perhaps indicates how much he craves a loving environment. Also, I really wanted Nasir to be smart enough to continue trusting Agron even after Nasir gets some/most/all of his memories back and he KNOWS what’s fact and what’s fiction.
> 
> When does Nasir get his memory back? Well, it starts happening when he sees Duro (Chapter 10: Rooftop) and it comes bit by bit. By the time Nasir recalls learning how to fly a helicopter (Chapter 14: Agron’s Team), he’s got a pretty good grasp on recent events. He can access memories of the distant past in Chapter 17: Ear Wax.
> 
> Does Nasir know that he and Agron aren’t actually married in Chapter 13: Emergency Room? Well, when Agron asks, “How long have we been married?” and Nasir doesn’t have an answer, it’s because he’s not sure if he can’t remember or if there is no answer. By the time Agron asks, “How’s married life treating you?” in Chapter 18: Helicopter, Nasir knows it was a ruse that Agron came up with to keep Nasir safe.
> 
> You might be wondering where Totus and Tychos got their hands on a taxi. Well, the taxi belongs to Lysandros. (The guy’s gotta have a day job. Besides, it’s a great cover for doing work for Mira... so is working part-time at a casino: Lysandros can easily keep an eye on Gannicus after Ganni joins Sparts’ vigilante Las Vegas team... which only came together after Sparts was officially taken off the case.) In Chapter 5, Agron promises to find out where the accident happened, yeah? So he calls Mira to get the details from Lucius. At that point, Mira suggests that Totus take the cab and pick them up… and hey you know what, wouldn’t it be helpful if Saxa and Harudes kept watch in the lobby of Agron’s hotel?? (Mira just really wanted ten minutes without five certifiable German-Americans driving her bonkers.)
> 
> Rabanus and Lydon were staying at the same hotel as Agron and Nasir, so that’s why Rab was in the elevator (Chapter 6).
> 
> Gerhard means “spear strong” (or “spear strength”) and I just like that for Agron because hey, in Spartacus: Blood and Sand, that was an EPIC spear throw in the arena that saved Duro, yeah? (^_^)
> 
> Up next in Chapter 27 is the epilogue, which takes place about eight weeks from now. If you want, you can skip over to Fake IDs and Tree Flavored Tea & In Retrospect and read a bit from Agron's and Duro's POV.


	27. Missouri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freefalling From Las Vegas is part of a series: The Fleischer Guide to an Unforgettable Holiday.
> 
> I recommend reading Fake IDs and Tree Flavored Tea (Chapters 1-6) and In Retrospect (Chapters 1-4) BEFORE reading this final chapter of Freefalling.  
> Then, read Chapter 7 of Fake IDs.  
> Last, read Chapters 5-7 of In Retrospect.
> 
> But, whatever floats your boat. (^_~)

Eight weeks later, the cast came off.  I was in the Hermann Area District Hospital and my doctor was a middle-aged Syrian woman who pronounced my name just like my brother used to.

Agron waited outside the room until I’d blinked back the memories, and then he walked me out to his car.  “Duro’s counseling session with Sibyl got pushed back, so he’s meeting us at Lugo’s.”

“There’s no way he’s gonna--”

“Hey, relax.  I know, OK?  He’s just gonna be there for moral support.”

I snorted.

Agron reached over the gearshift and scooped up my hand, resting both atop my thigh.  I squeezed his fingers.  His skin felt hot even through the fabric of my jeans.  Jeans.  I could wear jeans again.  The jogging pants had seen their last ray of sunshine.  I was undecided between a back-of-closet burial or a barbecue pyre.

Agron idly thumbed the inseam, giving me a slow smile when I glanced his way.  Burning.  I was burning up from neck to knee caps.

Thank God our eight weeks were up.  Just a few more hours and then I was going to see what all the fuss was about.  And by “fuss” I meant the happenings inside Agron’s pants.  If his increasingly eager responses to our kisses were anything to go by, there was quite a lot to see and do around those parts.

But first, Lugo’s.

The team was already there warming up.  I was greeted with ludicrously enthusiastic cheers and manly back-slapping.

“Now you an’ Agron can fuck like bunnies!” Saxa screeched.  The dudes on the neighboring team all craned their necks to get a good look at the lucky couple.  I rolled my eyes.  Only in a small town.

I plopped down next to Duro who offered me a high five.  “The epic invalids!” he declared.  “We’ll let these dumb fucks play without us for one more week.”

“As we lull them into a false sense of security,” I agreed.

“Before we _****strike!”****_

Duro’s exclamation coincided with the toppling of all ten pins.  I offered Rudy a high five in congratulations.

“Nice pun, Duro.”  He’d improved under my proud tutelage.

He slumped back against the hard plastic seat and watched as Saxa picked up a spare.  “You set ‘em up, I knock ‘em down.”

Yup.  Improvement.

Totus was whistling the Oscar Mayer wiener song as he took his turn, and it was totally fucking with the guys on the other team, Sedullus and Nemetes included.  Agron and I had agreed weeks ago that they totally fucked but were too chicken to do it outside of the closet.

Well, we’d show ‘em how it was done.

In the meantime, the Rhineland Bowling League destroyed its arch nemesis from Swiss.  As in Swiss, Missouri.  God, did I love this state.

It was a two hour drive back to Agron’s place on the outskirts of St. Louis.  We spent the time with the radio off.  I doodled patterns onto Agron’s jeans, zeroing in on which specific combinations of whorls and zigzags made his thigh go iron-hard in a helpless flex of muscle.

By the time we pulled into the drive and parked, both of us were on the verge of combustion.

“Order in?” he asked as casually as he could after clearing his throat twice.

“Casserole in the fridge,” I corrected.  “Next to the beer.”

“Fuck, I love you.”

“Prove it.”

He did.

And, ahhh fuck, yes, this man had been worth waiting for.  I was still gasping from the incomprehensible, mind-blanking force of my release when he nuzzled and nipped along the back of my shoulders, wrapping me up tighter in his arms and murmuring, “We’ve been ‘kind of married’ for eight weeks now.  What are your thoughts on letting me make it official?”

“I’m gonna need all new ID.”  I smiled, not irritated by the chore in the slightest.

Nasir Fleischer.  You know, maybe it was the post-coital glow, but the name did have a nice ring to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Glorious Sexytimes are in Chapter 7 of Fake IDs and Tree Flavored Tea. (^_~) ...not as explicit as the scenes in APMF (And Prove More Fierce), just so you know.
> 
> Hermann is a real place that I have never been to. Nearby are the very small towns of Rhineland and Swiss. No lie. But the bowling league, yeah, that might be fictional.
> 
> If you enjoyed "Freefalling From Las Vegas" and are feeling generous, I would love to hear what you liked about the fic. Or leave a kudo. Kudos are wonderful and remind me that, yes, it is worth the time and effort to post my writing for others to read. (^_^)

**Author's Note:**

> If you were wondering, this is how Spartacus got on Numerius’ bad side:
> 
> A woman named Aurelia contacted the police about her missing husband Varro. The FBI took over the case when the investigation led to Quintus Batiatus who was already on their watch list. Naevia had just gone undercover as a member of the house staff. In order to keep Batiatus from suspecting that there was an agent undercover in his household, Spartacus showed up at Batiatus’ villa to ask about Varro, who had been seen speaking to Batiatus at an undergound (illegal) fight. During Spartacus’ visit, he met Santos (Batiatus’ personal assistant) and Oenomaus (the trainer).
> 
> After this, in an unrelated event, Diona was assaulted at a party (where all the “Romans” got together for their idea of a fun time). She was so traumatized that she couldn’t work anymore. Lucretia fired her and promoted Naevia.
> 
> Spartacus located Diona at a private clinic. She told him everything she knew in exchange for witness protection. Spartacus then contacted venues and catering services to ask if either Santos or Oenomaus were clients. Of course Batiatus found out about this and he had to get creative in booking events. Normally, Santos dealt with the arrangements, but the FBI was watching Santos, so Naevia (now Lucretia’s personal assistant) had to be the contact person and coordinate with Santos (and Solonius’ and Vettius’ personal assistants) AND Dominus’ personal assistant: Tiberius.
> 
> The only way to find out who Tiberius worked for was to put him under surveillance. Spartacus tracked Tiberius’ phone to an apartment in San Diego.
> 
> Just after Spartacus had identified the promoters and trainers involved, and just before he was able to follow Tiberius to this mysterious sponsor “Dominus,” Sura was abducted and Spartacus was taken off the case. That’s where his army buddies (Hamilcar, Tychos, Sophus, Peirastes, and Fulco) come in… and also, Mira (and her team of Lysandros and Lucius) and Gannicus (who had told Spartacus to fuck off when he’d tried to recruit him to be an informant on the world of illegal fighting, but when Sura was taken, Ganni was willing to help in an unofficial capacity because Dominus had gone Too Far).
> 
> Naevia:
> 
> Naevia worked undercover before. She helped bring down a slave/sex trafficking operation run by Trebius and Ferrox. It was harrowing, but it fueled her drive to dive back in and take down more bad guys. Spartacus was on the team that made the Trebius/Ferrox bust; that was how he and Naevia met. When she volunteered to go undercover at Batiatus’ home, he supported her and offered to be her contact person.
> 
> Naevia was under a lot of pressure leading up to the final showdown at the Domus: (1) undercover work is risky no matter what, (2) her trusted team leader Spartacus was removed from the investigation and she wasn’t sure if she could trust the newly appointed team leader not to be working for Dominus, (3) she fell in love with a trained killer who was coerced to provide sexual favors (for Lucretia) and then was set up to die for entertainment, (4) she was on the verge of being victimized by the people she was investigating.
> 
> By the time the lights went out, Naevia was beyond furious that she hadn’t been able to put an end to this debauchery and brutality sooner, and she couldn’t bear the thought of watching all these terrible people skip the country as soon as their lawyers convinced the judge to set bail. So she screamed for Crixus to trust Spartacus and she started throwing down.
> 
> Fallout:
> 
> On the official FBI report, the person who caused the power outage at the Domus was listed as “unknown” and all the gates opening was probably due to a glitch in the system.
> 
> The fighters and the villa staff would need psychiatric evaluation and official identification. Some men probably had outstanding warrants against them (because they were clearly willing to do whatever it took to stay alive and this was probably not a trait they had developed AFTER entering the Brotherhood). It’s possible some of them tried to escape the house and avoid arrest, but Death Valley is huge and unless you’ve got access to a car (or know how to fly a helicopter), then there’s just nowhere to go.
> 
> I feel for the fighters. On the one hand, they got their vengeance. On the other, they were used by Spartacus’ team to take out the bad guys -- a job that should have been left to the authorities. I don’t believe a jury would straight-up convict the fighters for the deaths of the spectators given the tortures they’d suffered and the fact that all the men (with the exception of a single victor) were supposed to die in the Arena that night. With Naevia’s testimony, I think guys like Crixus and Varro would be free… provided they got therapy. (And with Varro’s gambling debts being what got him into trouble in the first place, he’d need to attend a support group at the very least.)


End file.
